


Irreversible Things

by gilded_iris



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Coming Out, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Happy Endings!!!, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, Past Drug Use, Past Suicide Attempt, Therapy, discussion of suicide, gratuitous uses of irony and parallel structure, i'm a ho for literary devices, whoops there's angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:49:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 55,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilded_iris/pseuds/gilded_iris
Summary: The thing about being famous is that everyone knows who you are.The thing about being famous is that everyone has an opinion about you.The thing about being famous is that Richie Tozier can’t take it for another minute.The thing about Eddie Kaspbrak is that he has no idea who Richie Tozier is.





	1. The Thing About Hookups

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maddy_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddy_writes/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Irreversible Things (О Необратимости)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19501597) by [lamotriginewoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamotriginewoman/pseuds/lamotriginewoman)



#  The Thing About Hookups

“I didn’t fucking ask for this, okay? That’s the fucking thing, though. Everyone thinks I fucking _asked_ for this! I fucking didn’t!”

“Richie, do you think you can calm down enough to speak one sentence without the word ‘fucking’ in it?”

“Fuck you, Stan. I’m fucking hanging up–“

“Don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I know you didn’t ask for it. I know how hard it is for you. Trust me. I know.”

“Fuck. Fuck!”

“Richie, where are you?”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you at your place?”

“No.”

“Are you somewhere public?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I’m your friend.”

“I pay you to be my friend.”

“In that case, you pay me very well.”

“Yeah.”

“That was a joke.”

“I’m so sad, Stan.”

“I know. Now, where are you?”

“I’ve been so sad for so long.”

“Richie, where are you?”

“I hate this so much.”

“Richie. Tell me where you are.”

“So you can come get me?”

“So I can come get you.”

“And then what?”

“And then whatever you want. You can come over to Mike and I’s place or I can stay the night at your place with you.”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“I could take you to Bill and Audra’s–"

“I don’t want to see Bill. Fuck Bill. I wish I’d never met Bill.”

“It’s not Bill’s fault.”

“What isn’t his fault?”

“Any of it.”

“Some of it is his fault.”

“None of it is his fault.”

“It has to be someone’s fault.” A pause. “Hey, Stan?”

“What?”

“I’m gonna shave my head.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m gonna get extensions.”

“No, you aren’t.”

"I'm gonna get drastic plastic surgery. I'm gonna get a face tattoo. I'm gonna go to a piercing parlor and get everything they offer."

"No, you aren't."

“You don’t get to tell me not to.”

“I’m not telling you not to. I’m just telling you that you aren't. I know you.”

“No, you don’t. No one knows me.”

“Everyone knows you.”

“Yeah. That too. I’m hanging up.”

“If you hang up, I’m calling you back. This conversation isn’t over until you’re in my car and I can see that you’re safe. After that you can sulk or cry or do whatever you need to do.”

Richie hangs up. Stan calls back.

“Stan.”

“Richie.”

"I don't want to talk anymore."

“Well, you’ve had people give you what you want for too long. That’s part of the problem.”

“I’m hanging up again.”

“And that means I’m calling back again.”

Richie hangs up. Stan calls back. Richie doesn’t answer. Stan calls again.

“I’m hanging up and turning my phone off.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m hanging up and giving my phone to a homeless person.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m going to give them my wallet too.”

“Richie.”

“What’s my PIN number? They’ll probably want to know that.”

“I’m not telling you your PIN number.”

“Why not?”

“It’s literally my job not to give you your PIN number.”

“Well I only have like a hundred bucks on me and I’ve got to make an emergency withdrawal. What’s the point of me even having charge cards if you won’t tell me my PIN?”

“What happened to the rest of your allowance?”

“I’m too old to have an allowance.”

“And you’re too rich and impulsive not to. I make sure you get a lot of money every week but if you think you need more, that’s going to be a long, formal conversation in my office and it’s going to involve lots of charts and figures.”

“Boo.”

“Where are you?”

“In the closet.”

“Ha ha.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Is that what this is about?”

"No. Yes. No and yes."

"Richie.” A sigh. A very tired one at that. This isn’t exactly a new conversation. “I’ve been telling you to come out for years. You know I have. You know–”

“My manager doesn’t want me to.”

“Mrs. Denninger doesn't know what's best for you.”

"And you do?"

"In this case, and in most cases, yes. Richie, we can talk in circles all night long, or we can just take the short route for once. I’m your friend. Mike is your friend. Audra is your friend. Bill is your friend. We are all your friends. We know you. We love you. You have to know that. I’ll drive all over SoCal looking for you if I have to. If you don’t want to see me after that, fine, but you know you need to be with someone tonight. You wouldn’t have called me in the first place if you didn’t know that. So please, Richie, make it easy on me. Tell me where you are.” Another pause. “Say something.”

“I hate gum.”

“Oh my God. Are you trying to give me an ulcer? Because this is how you give someone an ulcer."

“Ok, Stan. You win. You wanna know where I am?”

“I think I’ve established that fairly firmly.”

“Sure. I’m in the bathroom at the Olive Garden.”

“Jesus. Fine. Let me get my keys. Which Olive Garden?”

“Times Square.”

“You’re in New York.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

Richie hangs up yet again and this time when Stan calls back, he actually does turn his phone off. Then he calmly leaves the bathroom, puts a fifty dollar bill on the table next to his half-empty glass of coke and his completely empty basket of breadsticks. He knows he doesn’t really need to pay (he was in a series of Olive Garden commercials in the late nineties, and really he’s already made them enough money), but he wants to anyway. It doesn't occur to him that he’s paying ten times the cost of what could loosely be considered his meal. In fact, he’s a little scared it isn’t enough. He's never actually eaten at an Olive Garden, so maybe that's why he felt the need to come here in the first place. The commercials were filmed at a pretend Olive Garden in a studio in Culver City. Richie would sit on his pretend uncle's lap or grimace as his pretend grandma tugged on his cheek all while the pretend family sat around eating pretend Italian food while they themselves pretended to be Italian-American. At the end of the commercials, Richie got to take a big bite out of cheesecake and proclaim, _The Olive Garden, when you're here, you're family!_

His waiter approaches him just as he’s heading out. A few people in white smocks peer out of the kitchen. Everyone who works at the restaurant knows he’s here by now, there’s no doubt about that, and they all want to catch a glimpse. They don’t dare risk their jobs by taking a picture, but that doesn’t stop the other patrons. The second floor dining area is rife with people pointing phones at him. Some of them pretend to read a menu while the camera lens on their phone peeks out, as though this meekness somehow makes it more acceptable. Others couldn’t give less of a fuck and don’t bother with being sneaky. Some of them even have their flash on. Richie finds it incredibly disorienting, even after all this time.

"Richard!" The waiter calls after him, plastic bag swinging in his hand, just like someone would call after a friend. And why shouldn't he? Everyone calls Richie 'Richard' because everyone knows he's Richard. Come on, it's _Richard Tozier!_

Right now, he wishes he could look like anyone but Richard Tozier. He thinks he really might shave his hair off. It almost touches his shoulders these days, and that's enough to piss off his manager. Going bald might kill her. His manager is, as far as Richie knows, the oldest one in the 'biz. Her name is Mrs. Mildred Denninger and it says it just like that on her business card, despite the fact she's never been married. She insists on being called Mrs. Denninger and when someone makes the mistake of calling her Mildred, she takes it as a personal offense. She's famous for being the last person to manage both Katharine Hepburn and Lauren Bacall. The woman is a goddamn institution who's spent her eighty-five years on Earth entrenching herself in the behind the scenes workings of Hollywood. She's got deep roots and no plans to replant them. She's a relic of the time when a studio owned an actor and could sue if they so much as changed their hair color. Funnily enough, Richie hired her years ago for the same sort of ownership. He was a fresh-faced eighteen year old looking to get taken seriously. She saw potential. She took him out of the limelight for a year, got him LASIK surgery, a subtle nose job, and a series of painful dental procedures, sent him to the Actors Studio to learn the art of thee-ater, then redebuted him as a star. Hollywood ate it up. He went from Richie _Toe-zhure_ to Richard _Toe-zhee-ay._ Mrs. Denninger insisted on changing the pronunciation of his name because "it evokes Laurence Olivier and those goddamn Canucks you descended from slurred it anyway." And so he was transformed from a funny, goofy child star to an aloof, tortured leading man and it’s all thanks to Mrs. Denninger.

Stanley Uris hates her for it. That's probably because Stan was best friends with the funny, goofy child star. They met when Richie was six and Stan was eight. Stan was in love with  Richie until Richie was seventeen and Stan was nineteen. Now Richie is twenty five and Stan is twenty seven and Richie doesn't know where that leaves them. Well, it leaves Stan married and Richie his employer.

Stan hands him a fat paper envelope with two thousand bucks in it every week. It’s all spending money because Stan makes sure everything else is paid for and the ample amount leftover is prudently invested.

Stan likes to leave little notes in tidy print on the front of the envelopes. Most of the time they relate to the money itself. _I put a bit extra in because Mrs. Denninger says you need new clothes; I think you look fine._ Sometimes they're reminders. _Mike's birthday is next week, don't buy him anything, just make sure you come over for dinner._ But Richie’s favorite is when Stan writes strange one line jokes that no one but Stan himself would ever find funny. At least Richie is pretty sure they’re meant to be jokes. They might be better classified as proverbs. They’ve never made Richie laugh, but they always make him smile.

_A man walks into a bar. Ouch._

They don’t talk about the notes, and for all Stan knows, Richie might not even read them. But Richie does read them. And more than that, he keeps them. In the bottom drawer of his dresser at home, he has two hundred and sixty-five empty envelopes tucked away – one for each week since Stan started handling Richie’s finances, with only one exception. No more, no less. Stan delivers them every Monday like clockwork. If Richie's filming on location, Stan has the cash insured and sent out straight from the post office by Friday afternoon.

The one Monday Richie didn't get an envelope, the week before he got one that said this on the front:

_Double amount because Mike and I will be on our honeymoon next week._

And yes, ok, maybe there was a time when Richie was a little in love with Stan too. Maybe when Stan told him about his feelings Richie wanted to kiss him. Maybe he rejected him instead because he was scared. But the past is the past and missed chances are missed chances. Besides! Richie likes Mike. He's definitely the most down-to-Earth person Richie knows. It's probably because he's the farthest removed from fame. He's an archivist at the Huntington Library now, but a few years ago he did security work for the museum's grounds. One day, Stan was watching birds on a bench in the rose garden when Mike was doing rounds. Mike used his employee privilege to pick a rose and give it to Stan. It was like something out of a goddamn fairy tale.  Since then, Mike has put up with just as much of Richie’s shit as Stan. And when Stan asked Richie to be his best man, Richie couldn't say no. At the wedding, Stan said, “I knew I loved Mike when I first saw him. Since then, there hasn’t been a day when I haven't loved him just as much.” It made Richie gag.

Richie just wishes his friendship with Stan could return to the way it was when they were kids.

Richie reaches into his wallet and shoves an extra ten dollars into the waiter's hand. The waiter gives Richie the plastic bag.

“I don’t want this,” Richie says. “I didn’t pay for it.” He tries again. “It isn’t mine.”

“It’s a gift, Richard. From all of us at the Olive Garden.”

He’s tired of people giving him things. Still, he takes the bag and then he’s gone.

He very nearly sprints down the stairs and out of the building. He pushes past tourists who are too distracted by the chaos of Times Square to notice him. To his right, a man in an Elmo costume is screaming at a group of tourists. To his left, a hustler is trying to give away copies of his mixtape. And all around him are lights and lights and lights and lights. Storefronts! Marquees! Headlights! LED billboards! Coca-cola! Kodak! McDonald's! Eat! Drink! Buy, buy, buy! The night sky is studded with flashing bulbs. The sidewalk is almost too crowded to breathe. He runs into a traffic cone. A taxi almost hits him.

He wonders what dying feels like because all of the sudden his skin is too tight and his heart is hammering in his chest. There are too many people and Richie can't tell if they're all looking at him or not looking at him or looking at him but pretending not to be looking at him. He has no idea what he's doing, or even what he was intending on doing when he showed up at LAX this morning with no luggage and used up nearly the last of his allowance on a two thousand dollar last minute first class seat to JFK, still drunk after a night of binge drinking at home. But Stan was right, he is too rich and too impulsive and now he's about to throw up six shitty breadsticks in the middle of Times Square and lose his goddamn mind. If people aren't looking at him yet, he's sure they're about to. He's going to have an almighty public breakdown. He can feel it.

He sprints down the sidewalk, weaving past some people and bumping into lots more. His vision warps and bends and he thinks he might be crying. He isn’t, and somehow that's even worse. Finally, he breaks free from the heart of the madness and ducks under a sidewalk shed to catch his breath. People took pictures of him, he knows they did. And still, there's a group of tourists across the street staring at him, as though they're trying to figure out whether it's really him or not. Richie's also trying to figure out if he's himself or not. He looks at his hands and they don't seem like his anymore. No part of him has seemed like him for a very long time. Strangely enough, his hands seem like they might be his father's hands or at least the vague memory Richie has of his father's hands. Wentworth Tozier died when Richie was four, so for all he knows, he might actually be thinking of the hands of an actor who played his father. He digs his fingernails into his palms and tries to remember seeing his dad's face in person and not in a photo. He can't do it.

He reaches into the plastic Olive Garden bag and pulls out a styrofoam box. Across the top, Richie's line from the commercials is scrawled, except for a second, Richie swears it actually says, _The Olive Garden, when you're here, you're ours!_ He opens the box to find a slice of cheesecake drenched in whipped cream and chocolate syrup. He sticks his thumb in it and licks it clean. It doesn't taste like anything at all. A light flashes from across the street. The tourists have figured out that it's him.

Richie turns his phone back on and finds fifteen missed calls and fifty unread texts, all of which simply say, _Answer the phone._ The last ten are from Mike's number, but Richie knows it's still Stan sending them. Another text comes through, this one from Stan’s number again. _You don’t get to do this to us._ So Richie does what any other normal person would do. He smears his phone in the cheesecake, closes the box, puts it back into the bag, and throws the whole damn thing into the nearest trash can he can find.

He feels an almost inexplicable burden lift off his chest. His breathing levels out and his vision goes back to normal. He's fine; just absolutely fine. The tourists are still looking at him and taking pictures. Richie isn't sure if they could tell what he was doing or not. He doesn't really care. He pushes his hair in front of his face and flips them off. It’s not much of a look, but right now he would much rather look like Cousin It than himself. He walks away barely able to see and marginally less recognizable.

He figures he should walk uptown where he can be around the native Manhattanites who see celebrities often enough to ignore them. He takes a right and forty second street becomes forty first street which becomes thirty ninth street. It isn’t until he's at the corner of twenty ninth and third avenue that he realizes he’s heading south. He doesn't think he can handle going back through midtown, so downtown it is. He might as well go there anyway, seeing as he doesn't actually have a destination in mind.

He hasn’t walked the city alone since taking classes at the Actors Studio. Things were a lot different then, though. Being recognized on the street was still exciting. _Hey, weren't you in a few episodes of Malcolm in the Middle? You're the kid from that movie with The Rock, right? My kids think you're hilarious!_ Richie ate that shit up.

But it's different now. He's a serious actor who needs to maintain a dignified public profile. And he has a stupid, naked, little golden man that makes sure everyone knows just who he is. The film adaptation of _The Black Rapids_ earned both Bill and Richie their first Oscars. Bill was twenty six. Richie was nineteen. They were the youngest to win in their respective categories and were declared wunderkinder overnight. It was Richie’s debut starring role and it shot him straight to the top. It was also a fluke. In the six years since Richie hasn’t gotten so much as another nomination. But the world is hot for thrillers and Lord knows Bill Denbrough can write ‘em. Big Bill has four Oscars now in three different categories. Last year alone, he managed to get nominated for Best Picture for two separate movies with wins in both the Best Screenplay and Best Adapted Screenplay categories for the first time in history. Two hit movies in one year. Incredible. Meanwhile, the last time Richie went to the Oscars was two years ago. Tatum O'Neal slapped him on the back after the ceremony and told him that his career had already peaked. He just goes to the after-parties now.

Bill keeps all of his statuettes lined up in a beautiful, custom-made glass case on display next to his wife's in their cozy Van Nuys bungalow. Richie keeps his stuffed in his kitchen cupboard next to a Golden Globe and a bag of rice someone bought him in 2015 despite the fact he's never cooked in his life. It has a Sharpied-on mustache and its head is attached by superglue. Bill saw it once and yelled at him for disrespecting the Academy. Richie yelled at Bill for being pretentious. Bill called Richie spoiled. Richie threw his Oscar and the head broke off again. They didn't talk for a month.

They've gotten into a lot of arguments of the same nature over the years. It's hard for them not to. Bill grew up in small, working-class town in Maine. Richie's father was an oral surgeon and his family moved to Bel Air he was two. Bill went to an underfunded public high school. Richie didn't go to high school at all. Bill was a scholarship student who had to work part-time in a textile mill to make ends meet. Richie's net worth was higher than Bill's entire tuition by the time he was ten.

And of course, Bill earned his fame. Richie had his thrust upon him.

But the curse that's hung over most of their friendship happened on the night they won their twin Oscars. Drunk on Moët & Chandon and high on his first taste of Hollywood success, Bill planted a sloppy kiss on Richie's cheek on the way out of the Vanity Fair after-party. The paps had a field day. The next morning a photo of the kiss made the front page of the _National Enquirer._ The article called them gay lovers. _Star_ ran an equally damning picture of Bill whispering something in Richie's ear. A third picture went on Perez Hilton's website where Richie's crotch was circled with the caption, _is he hard or is that just his wallet?_

Bill tweeted out that they were both straight within an hour of the pictures' publication.

It was fine. Richie expected that they would have to say something like that.

Richie invited Bill to his house for coffee later that week after the worst of it died down As they were laughing about some stupid inside joke they'd come up with on set, Richie put his hand on Bill's thigh. Bill's mouth dropped into a funny little o-shape. He blushed and said, “Oh! You thought…” Bill apologized for telling the whole world Richie was straight. Richie apologized for putting his hand on Bill's thigh. Bill went home pretty soon after that.

A few years later, Bill asked Richie if he remembered what he'd whispered to him that night. Richie said he couldn't recall. He lied. Bill'd whispered, _We've fucking made it. I fucking love you, man._ Richie will never forget it.

Mrs. Denninger said it was a good thing for all of them that the public thought of Richie as straight. But that was 2012 and while it wasn't exactly another era, it also wasn't exactly a great career move to come out. Worse than that, she told him that if he ever did need to come out, it would have to be as gay. Bisexuals, according to her, confuse the general public. If he wanted to fuck Bill Denbrough, they would have to be very careful about it. Richie assured her that there would be no fucking going on.

And where does it leave them now? Well, it leaves Bill married and Richie his sometimes collaborator.

And yeah, sure, maybe he was more than just interested in Bill. Maybe he was a little in love again. Maybe Bill's lips on his cheek made his heart leap and his stomach hot. But the past is still the past and missed chances are still missed chances. Well, they aren't exactly missed chances when you took the chance and were rejected because your friend is almost painfully straight. Besides! Richie likes Audra. They starred together in Bill’s second movie, _Attic Room._ Audra and Bill both won Oscars for the film; Richie didn’t get a nomination. He tried very hard not to be hurt. A few months later, Bill helped Audra get off drugs. A few months after that, Audra in turn helped Richie get off drugs. It’s been three years since either of them have had so much as a sniff of coke and none of it would have happened without Bill. When the couple got married, Richie was a best man for the second time in his life. The wedding got a spread in _Vogue_ because Philbrough is the Hollywood couple that everyone can’t help but love. In the article, Bill told the interviewer, “The only part of me I’ve lost in Hollywood is my heart.” It made Richie gag.

Richie just wishes that his friendship with Bill could return to the way it was before the kiss.

But it isn’t closeted angst that got him here. No, despite what Stan says, Richie is thoroughly convinced that it’s still Bill Denbrough’s fault that he’s losing his mind. Their last fight was two days ago and after the way it ended, Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever talk to Bill again. He certainly will never work with him again. He's not going to think about that, though. Instead, he’s just going to walk the streets of New York and pretend there’s no problem at all. He’s going to pretend that he still enjoys acting. He’s going to pretend that he isn’t having a nervous breakdown. He’s going to pretend and pretend and pretend because pretending isn't just what he’s done all his life. It’s what he’s good at.

But no matter how much he pretends, he doesn’t get to stop being himself. He doesn’t get to know what it feels like to be a normal person. Fame is an irreversible thing. Once you hit a certain level, there’s no going back. Yes, he could retire. Yes, he could drop off the face of the Earth. Yes, he could move to Wisconsin and never talk to anyone again and live the rest of his life hiding inside his house. But that’s no way to live. He can’t get another job. Even if he didn’t have to worry about the fame, he has no other skills. His education stopped after sixth grade and he’s definitely never had any incentive to learn a trade. He’s never done his own grocery shopping. He doesn’t know how to pay taxes. He doesn’t even have a driver’s license because he’s always had enough for a chauffeur. When it comes down to it, he’s pretty damn helpless. Once, when Stan didn’t know he was listening, Richie heard him tell Mike that famous people stop maturing at the age in which they get famous. Well, if that’s true, it makes Richie four. A tired, washed up, closeted, four year old hack. Irreversible.

Richie finally stops walking somewhere in the East Village, in front of a club that seems to simply be called 'Hump.' It’s a club with a mural of Donna Summer painted on the front grate. A club with the words 'We are Orlando' stencilled on the sidewalk outside. A club with lots of men heading into it. In other words, it’s a very, very gay club. And fuck it, it seems like fate. His palms are sweaty. He can nearly hear Stan screaming at him not to do it. To come out first and go clubbing later. He can nearly see Mrs. Denninger's eyes rolling back into her head. He can nearly hear her shriek.

Richie gets in line.

The club is in the basement and the stairs are bathed in red light. Richie can already feel the bass of synthpop. The vibrations of freedom.

"Have your IDs out and ready! If you're under twenty one, you aren't getting in!" The bouncer calls from the bottom of the stairs.

Richie's heart clenches. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and takes out his ID. His own face stares back at him. RICHARD WENTWORTH TOZIER. It's not like he thought he could get in without being noticed, but he could have at least tried to play it cool. _Oh, you think I'm Richard Tozier? Ha, ha, I get that a lot._ It's worked two times before; it hasn't worked a hundred times before. Oh well. Before he can bail, he's at the front of the line. The bouncer squints at him.

"ID, please."

Richie holds his ID up with his thumb covering his name. It doesn't matter.

"You're good to go, Mr. Tozier," the bouncer says with a grin.

"What's the cover charge?"

"Oh, you don't need to worry about that. Consider it paid for."

"I want to pay it."

“In that case, it'll be five bucks."

"That's it? For everyone?"

The bouncer looks at him strangely for a second before laughing. "You're funny."

Richie hasn't been called funny in a long time. And yeah, he isn't sure what's funny about what he said, but it doesn't matter. He hands over a ten. The bouncer stamps his hand. And then he's in.

  


Only half a dozen people know that Richie's attracted to men. He told Stan first even though he's pretty sure Stan knew even before he did. Mrs. Denninger was second and quick to come up with a million reasons to keep him in the closet. Mike was third. Stan could have just as easily told him, but he wanted to make sure Richie got the chance first. Bill was next. He was a good guy about it. He’s never told anyone about Richie coming onto him, not even Audra. Richie omitted the incident when he came out to her. It was too embarrassing. He finally came out to his mother last year. That list is about to get a lot longer.

The club is just as tightly packed as Times Square was, but no one has their eyes on him. Everyone's attention seems to be firmly on each other and the four go-go dancers on stage wearing nothing but snapbacks and jockstraps.

Richie catches someone slip a dime bag of coke into someone else’s hand. He wants some. Actually, he wants a lot. Ordinarily, he would send a text to Audra right about now, but even if he still had his phone, he wouldn't reach out. Not while he's pissed at Bill. The guy who handed over the coke catches him watching, locks eyes with him, smiles, and pushes through the crowd.

"Want some?" The guy asks. "It'd be free for you."

"I…"

"Don't worry about it." The guy slips another dime bag in Richie's pocket. "You know, I always knew you were gay."

"I'm not… I'm bi, actually. And I don't want this." Richie takes the coke out of his pocket, stares at it for entirely too long, then reluctantly hands it back.

"I've got other things."

"I don't want any of it. At least not until I've had drink or two first.” Richie tries to make himself believe that it's a lie. He heads towards the bar and is relieved to find that the man isn't coming after him.

Richie’s a beer man, but tonight he orders double vodka cranberry and pays for it even though the bartender insists he doesn’t need to. It tastes like hand sanitizer and wine. It's incredibly purifying. Richie imagines the alcohol cleaning out everything toxic and rotten within him and making him new again. The bartender asks if he can take a picture. Apparently Hump has different standards than the Olive Garden.

“I’d rather not,” Richie says proud and clear. He likes it this way. The decision is his. The bartender grimaces but doesn't push the subject.

He catches a few people looking at him, so he takes another sip of his drink. Clean and pure and fresh and new. Maybe he’ll find the dealer again after all. He's gotten clean before, so he can do it again. He plucks the lime off the brim of his glass and chews on the rind for a bit if only to keep himself busy. He does want coke; he doesn’t want coke. He does. He doesn’t. Just as he’s about to get off his barstool to find the dealer, there’s a loud cheering behind him.

He swivels around to find that the four go-go dancers are gone and have been replaced with a squad of drag queens dressed like the Spice Girls. When Richie was twelve, he played Adam Sandler's son in a movie where they encountered a group of effeminate men dressed as women mincing around on the subway. The scene ended with the pretend-father Adam telling his pretend-son Richie that there's "nothing more horrifying than a man who acts like a woman." People thought Richie was very funny in that movie. People thought making fun of people who are different was very funny. They still do.

The filming of the movie came around the same time Richie was just starting to figure out his sexuality. But he hasn’t internalized it. At least he thinks he hasn’t. It’s just that now every time he sees a feminine gay man, that line goes over and over in his head. Stan thinks he should see a therapist to address intrusive thoughts. Richie disagrees. It’s not like he actually thinks that way. But then again, if he’d never been in that movie, maybe he would be out by now. Maybe he wouldn’t have rejected Stan. Maybe when Bill told Twitter they were straight, Richie wouldn’t have assumed that queer men needed to say things like that because they were ashamed.

Once he’s out of the closet, he knows there’s no going back. Someone will probably take a picture of him here. Someone probably has already. The bartender respected his privacy, but he has no doubt that there are plenty of people in here who don’t give a shit. Soon Snapchat will know which means Twitter will know which means the whole world will know. Irreversible.

But right here, right now, with ‘Wannabe’ pulsing through the club and vodka running through his veins, all Richie can think is that the people on stage are all very pretty. Posh is particularly stunning. She’s wearing a cropped tank top and skin-tight leather pants that catch the red glow of the club lights. Richie isn't the only one who seems to think so. All the performers are getting tips offered to them, but Posh is getting the most.

Richie downs the rest of his drink and orders another.

The song ends a little too quickly and Posh and the rest of the Spice Girls are off the stage. It’s not long before they return to do solos. Richie watches as Scary, Sporty, Ginger, and Baby each take the stage again, one after another, dressed as other famous pop singers. Richie stays on his stool, a little bit transfixed, waiting for Posh to come on again. It doesn’t happen though, and soon enough the show is over and the go-go dancers are back. Richie tries not to be disappointed. The crowd returns to dancing and Richie swivels back to face the bar. His heart rate picks up again without the distraction. He tries to tell himself that no one is looking at him, but he knows that's a lie. Even still, nothing happens. Richie stoops his head over his drink and lets his hair blanket his face again.

"I saw you looking at me."

Richie whips his head up to find Posh sitting on the barstool next to him. Only Posh isn't Posh anymore. Richie's surrounded by attractive men every day of his life, but this man is certainly the most beautiful he's ever seen. He's not Hollywood handsome, at least not really. His face is thin and his eyes are wild. The wig is gone and his hair is a little sweaty from performing. He's still got the makeup on, though. For drag makeup, it really isn't much, just a lot of dark eyeshadow that makes his eyes look even crazier. The crop top has been replaced with a plain white tee, but he's still wearing the leather pants. Richie also notices that, well, whatever had been tucked for the performance is untucked now. The man notices him noticing. He smiles. Richie blushes and turns back to the drink.

"Well actually, I saw lots of people looking at me, but you especially," Posh continues.

"What made me stand out?" Richie asks even though he knows the answer. It was only a matter of time before someone came over wanting to fuck the famous.

"You looked scared." Oh.

"Scared?"

Posh shrugs. "Like you needed for someone to be nice to you."

"Is that why you didn't perform again? Because you wanted to come out here and be nice to me?"

"As if. I was only performing as a favor, anyway. Drag is fun, but it's not really my thing, you know? But it's cute that you thought it was about you. Has anyone ever told you that you're conceited?"

"I…"

"What's your name?"

"My name?"

"You know, like what your parents decided to call you or what you decided to call yourself or whatever you decide you want me to call you. Your name."

Maybe it's the vodka, but Richie can't tell if Posh is being serious or not. He decides to play along. "Richie. Call me Richie."

"Is that short for Richard?"

"No."

"Well then, Just-Richie, it's nice to meet you."

"What's your name?"

"We'll get to that. Ask me if you can buy me a drink."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"I’ll have a dirty martini.”

Richie turns to the bartender and finds that he’s already staring at the two of them.

“Uh, Eddie,” the bartender says, “you do know who you’re talking to, right?”

“Dammit Jason, did you have to tell him my name? I was trying to be mysterious.” Posh says.

“How do you know each other?” Richie asks. He can feel a cool sweat start to trickle down his back. Any chance that Eddie actually didn’t recognize him is about to be torn away.

“Jason’s my coworker. I bartend here too,” Eddie says.

“And you were going to have me buy you a drink?”

“No, you’re still going to buy me a drink. Yeah, I could get one for free, but I like it when pretty guys buy me drinks.”

“Pretty?”

“Pretty, handsome, attractive, take your pick.”

Richie is trying to figure out Eddie's angle. He can't remember the last time he had a conversation with a person who didn't know who he was and, well, the possibility of Eddie being intrinsically attracted to him with no ulterior motive seems so damn unlikely.

"Do you watch a lot of movies?" Richie asks.

"I'm more of a theatre person."

"Who's your favorite actor?"

"You talk too much."

"Have you ever seen a television?"

"That's the stupidest question I've heard today. Maybe ever." Richie stares at him blankly. "Yes, I've seen a T.V. Shocking, isn't it?"

“Eddie–" the bartender starts.

“Jason,” Eddie snaps. “Are you trying to make sure I go home alone tonight?”

“It’s just that… you don’t know him, do you?”

“Am I supposed to?”

Richie glares at the bartender.

“No.” The bartender mixes Eddie’s drink. Richie hands over another ten bucks, only vaguely aware that he’s down to his last five dollars. The bartender is flagged down by someone on the opposite side of the bar before he can say anything else. 

“Sorry about that,” Eddie says. He eats the olives out of his drink right away. “Jason and I dated for like a month two years ago and he still takes it as a personal offense whenever I talk to a guy in front of him.”

“What did you mean by not wanting to go home alone?”

“I’m chatting you up. Was I being too subtle?” Eddie takes a sip of his martini and his face turns sour. “God, I hate martinis.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to order you one.”

“Yeah, that was me trying to be mysterious again. I feel like martinis are very alluring, don’t you? Too bad they taste like olive-tinged jet fuel. Sorry. Sometimes… sometimes I try to act like someone I’m not.” Eddie pushes his drink out of the way, puts his elbow on the table and rests his head in his hand. Despite what’s he just said, he seems perfectly comfortable in his own skin. Maybe he had something to drink before the show. Maybe he’s on something. Maybe that’s just how he is.

“Yeah. I know the feeling.”

“You want to just start over? I’m Eddie.”

“Is that short for Edward?”

“You’re funny.” Eddie laughs. It makes Richie want to laugh too.

“So what do you do for fun, Richie? I mean besides going to gay clubs and brooding at the bar.”

“I wasn’t brooding.”

“You were so brooding. Don’t worry, it was cute.”

“Cute?”

“Are we really doing this again? Has no one ever complimented you before?”

People compliment him all the time. It’s usually because they want to flatter him or gain something from him or even just because they don’t know what else to say. But Eddie says it like a simple statement of truth. Richie knows he’s attractive, but it’s a very manufactured sort of attractiveness. Not like Eddie, whose beauty seems to lie simply and completely in the way he carries himself.

“I just like it better when you're the one complimenting me,” Richie says, trying to catch his footing. He likes flirting. He’s good at flirting. He hasn’t flirted in a very long time.

“Well then, let me make it clear,” Eddie bends close to Richie, puts his hand on his thigh, and whispers, “I find you incredibly hot.”

Richie jumps. Eddie takes his hand back and blushes deep red.

“Shit. Was I being too forward? Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable–"

“No. I, uh, it was fine. Actually, it was good. It was unparalleled in all of human experience type of good.” Richie grins. "And by the way, I find you incredibly hot, too."

He’s almost expecting for this to be where it ends. For the penny to drop. For it to all go up in flames. God knows it's ended that way before.

But Eddie just laughs and downs the rest of his martini with a grimace. "Okay. So this feels like a good time to ask you if you want to get out of here. Good?"

Richie nods. They both stand up and Eddie takes him by the hand, leading him through the crowd and towards the stairs. People turn and stare, pointing fingers and phones at them. He can hear snippets of what they're saying.

_"Hey, isn't that–"_

_"–oh my God–"_

_"–it's totally him."_

But Eddie doesn't seem to notice. On their way out, Eddie stops and taps the bouncer on the shoulder.

“Brad, someone’s selling to the crowd.” Eddie points to the man who offered Richie coke. “It’s that guy who was doing it last weekend. I didn't see the other guy, but I think they're trying to run that scam again.”

“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll get security to take him out.”

“What scam?” Richie asks as they leave the building. He keeps his head down, but the panic isn’t there again. He tells himself it’s because of the vodka, but he thinks it might really be because of Eddie.

“It’s nothing. You didn’t buy from that guy, did you?”

“No.” In fact, Richie hasn’t even thought about the man since Eddie was on stage. Strangely enough, he’s okay now.

“Good.” And then Eddie’s balancing on his toes and running his fingers through Richie’s hair and bringing their lips together. It's the first time Richie's ever kissed another man. He's stiff with shock for just a second before he lets himself fall into it. They’re right there on the streets of New York where anyone might see them, but somehow it feels like the world might have just stopped.

Eddie pulls away. He puts his hand on Richie’s chest, almost as if he's feeling his heartbeat.

A couple walking by them on the sidewalk stops and stares. Richie turns his head away and hopes he's not too late. The man whispers something to the woman and points. Eddie pulls away from him.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Eddie half-yells at the man. "Move the fuck along, asshole."

Richie's heart hammers in his chest. The couple walks away.

"Sorry," Eddie says. "People… well, people look at me a lot, especially when I'm dressed like this. They think they're being fucking slick, but I can always tell. Sometimes I can even catch them taking a picture. Can you believe that?"

"No. That sounds awful."

"Well, nevermind it. Fuck people like that." Eddie kisses him again. "Where do you live? You look fancy. Let me guess, SoHo? Tribeca? Flatiron district? Stop me when I get it.”

Richie’s got five bucks and a useless piece of plastic in his pocket and he hasn’t rented a place here since he was eighteen. He usually stays at the Plaza Hotel when he’s in town, but even for him, they would insist on having a card down, no matter how much he’d try to get billed later. Too many celebrities have left rooms trashed and caused all sorts of damage. He’s not sure if he should panic or laugh. He chooses the latter.

“Could we actually go to your place?”

“I have a roommate… but she’s probably at her boyfriend’s tonight. Ok. My place. I live out in Bushwick and I’m too cheap for an Uber. You wanna call one?”

“Uh…”

  


The New York City subway is a lot hotter than Richie thought it would be. It turns out that walking into a station in the summer feels a lot like walking into an oven. The heat hits him all at once, sticky and hazy. It’s strange. Surreal, almost. He’s starting to feel like an imposter. He’s never been on public transport in his life. Sure, he’s played characters on buses and trains, but it’s almost funny how far removed a movie set is from the real thing. It occurs to him that Bill was right. He is spoiled. He lives in an entirely different world from Eddie and that fact is just starting to hit him. He feels like he should have a script telling him what to say and a director telling him how to hold himself. He’s still drunk enough to find it all funny, though.

He pretends he knows what he’s doing as he shoves the last of his cash into the Metrocard kiosk. Fare is $2.75 plus an extra buck for the card itself. He doesn’t even have enough cash for enough credit to take the train back tomorrow morning. Richie’s beyond foresight though. He has been all day.

“Are you new to the city or something?” Eddie asks with a laugh as Richie takes his card from the machine and stares at it for a second.

"Something like that."

The train pulls into the station just as they make it through the turnstiles. Eddie grabs his hand again and sprints to the end of the station.

“The back of the train is always the best,” he explains. “At this time of night, I bet we can find an empty car.”

They do. They’re the only ones in the last car, and they just make it in before the doors shut. Eddie laughs, grabs the pole, swings around once, and then twice before falling into a seat as the train jolts into motion. Richie’s about to laugh too when suddenly all he can think about is being twelve years old and sitting in a pretend train car that isn't dissimilar enough from this one with actors pretending to be gay dancing around him.  

_There's nothing more horrifying than a man who acts like a woman._

"You okay?" Eddie must have noticed something wrong. His made-up eyes are sad. Eyeshadow on a man. Can you believe it? Isn't it just _horrifying?_ Maybe the people on the street really were staring at Eddie and not him.

"I… I'm fine," Richie says. Eddie doesn't look convinced. "Really."

They’re both quiet for a minute, with just the sounds of the subway rattling to fill the air. Eddie takes Richie's hand. Richie's relieved to find that Eddie's nails aren't painted. Richie's disgusted with himself to be relieved to find that Eddie's nails aren't painted. Barely an hour ago, he was in the club and everything just felt _right._ And now, well, he's not sure. Eddie looks up at him with hazy, heavy-lidded eyes. It's the same type of look he had in the bar as he rested his chin on his palm. Now, he rests his head on Richie's shoulder.

"You know, if we were in the back of an Uber, we could be making out right now, cheapskate," he says. "I don't want to kiss you on the subway. It's too dirty. I don’t even want to touch anything. I usually carry around hand sanitizer, but these pants are so damn tight I could barely get my phone and wallet in them."

Eddie smiles, and even though he just said he didn't want to, he kisses Richie's cheek. Then again, Richie's already learned that cheek kisses don't really count. Still, it feels much too intimate for a night of passion. Richie doesn't know what to make of it. But somehow he feels right again. Eddie makes him feel right. Eddie puts his head back on Richie's shoulder.

"You know, I actually really love this train ride," Eddie says. "The first part anyway. Right now, we're under the East River. Isn't that crazy?"

"How long does it take to get to your stop?"

"About thirty minutes.” Eddie laughs. "I guess it makes it sort of awkward to maintain the sexual tension."

"Wot wot," Richie says before he can stop himself. He doesn't know why he says it either. He hasn't done voices in a long time. Mrs. Denninger says they're cheap.

Eddie bursts out laughing. It isn't the cute, mildly amused laughter from before. It's rapturous and a little drunk. Warm. "Did you just do an accent? Oh my God! That's the dorkiest thing I've ever heard. It's cute."

"You think so?"

"You were a class clown, weren't you?"

"Sort of.”

"Well, we've got some time to kill. We might as well get to know each other unless that ruins the whole going home with a stranger vibe for you."

"Thought you said I talk too much."

"I've changed my mind."

"Well, I'm not really all that good at talking about myself. I’m sort of a quiet person,” Richie says. If Stan could hear him right now, he'd probably burst out laughing. Bill definitely would.

"Bullshit."

"Why bullshit? You don't know me," Richie says and hopes that it's the truth. Maybe he's being stupid. Maybe Eddie really is up to something. Maybe he's been tricking him all night. It's certainly possible, but somehow he doesn't believe it. No, he's quite sure now that by some strange miracle, Eddie genuinely doesn't know who he is.

"I can just tell. I mean you're being guarded, that's for sure, but it's not who you are. You wanna know how I know?"

"How?"

"Because when you said the words 'quiet person' you had the same look on your face as I did when I drank that God awful martini."

"Oh."

"You said you know how it feels to act like someone you’re not too. I think we’re a lot alike.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No? Well, I don’t know about you, but that whole thing about me trying to be mysterious comes from me never getting to be myself as a kid. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got to create a whole new me. I don’t know why. I’ll catch myself doing it, though. Like tonight. I saw you watching me dance and… well I don’t know. Maybe I try to be whoever I think someone will like. Or maybe I was just made so ashamed of who I am that I’m scared that who I am really _is_ shameful.” Eddie meets Richie’s eyes. "I had a weird childhood. My mom was… strict? I guess that's the right word. Controlling. Manipulative. They all fit."

“No, it’s okay. Really, it is. What did she do?”

“It’s a lot to get into. And hey, I already bared a little bit of my heart. Now, how about yours? Want to tell me why you were brooding at the bar?"

Richie thinks for a moment before simply saying, "I think I might be having a nervous breakdown.”

"Huh. Heavy shit?"

"No. Not me."

"What’s causing it?"

"I had an argument with a guy I'm close with."

"Was it a breakup?"

"No. Definitely not."

"So then he’s just a friend?"

"I guess he's my friend."

"Well, what did he do?"

"He didn't give me a job."

"Was he supposed to?"

"Yeah," Richie says, but suddenly he's uncertain. He doesn't want to think about his fight with Bill and he definitely doesn't want to consider the possibility that it isn't why he's so unhappy. "It was… it was going to be really good for my career."

"Well, Mr. Gucci Pants, I think you'll land on your feet. What do you do for a living?"

“These pants aren’t Gucci.”

“Trust me, I know Gucci. And you didn’t answer the question.”

“I….”

The subway finally makes its first stop. It seems to be enough of a distraction for Eddie.

“Only six more stops.”

“Six?”

“Relax. The first one’s only so long because it has to go under the river. We get off at Jefferson Street.”

“Do you take this train every day?”

“Most days. I go to school at NYU and as you already know I bartend at Hump, so I have to take this commute a lot.”

“Why don’t you just live in the East Village then?”

Eddie laughs. “Wait, are you serious?”

Richie nods dumbly.

“You must really be able to afford all the Gucci pants you want. Newsflash, there’s an affordable housing crisis. I don’t think there’s a single livable apartment going for under $2,000 in all of Manhattan and even those are studios. And then, of course, student housing is hard to get as an upperclassman. Most seniors I know either live in Harlem or somewhere in Brooklyn like me. Thirty minutes isn’t such a bad commute, either. My roommate’s boyfriend also lives in Bushwick, but he goes to Columbia. It takes him an hour to get to school, and that’s when the trains are running smoothly. I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re not really from the city. Did you just move here or are you visiting?”

“Visiting, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Richie shrugs.

“Where are you from then?”

“California.”

“Very specific. Why are you here?”

“Nervous breakdown, remember? I couldn’t be in California… I just had to get away.”

“From your friend?”

“From a lot of things.”

"And what's your career again? Oh, that's right. You avoided the question."

Shit. Richie should’ve known it would come back to this. "I, uh, I make sandwiches. I'm a sandwich artist."

"Like at Subway?"

"Sure."

"Ok. I totally believe that. It's a very legitimate long-term career. Very lucrative."

"Thanks."

“And so your friend didn't give you a job… making sandwiches?”

“Well, I guess I lied."

"Yeah, that's pretty obvious."

"Not about the sandwiches, about him not giving me the job. You see, I _had_ the job but then he took the job back before I could even do it. And that's a big deal! People are acting like it isn't, but it is! My friend comes up with sandwich ideas, writes recipes, I mean. And his sandwiches are great. Really great. I mean everyone agrees that he is one of the best sandwich recipe writers, like ever. But I'm also one of the best at making his sandwiches! Even my friend doesn’t deny that, which is why he told me I could make his sandwich in the first place!"

"So why can't you, uh, make the sandwich now?"

"Great fucking question! Well you see, the people who actually own the restaurant are total fucking assholes and they're saying that people aren't enjoying my sandwiches as much as they used to. Even worse than that, they say this might be the most profitable sandwich recipe yet and they can't take any chances, so they need someone who's quote unquote 'stable' and 'not a ticking time bomb.' But you know, since my friend is so good at coming up with the sandwich ideas even the restaurant owners have to listen to him. All he would have to do is tell them that he won't give them the recipe if I'm not the one who gets to make it. But of course he won't do that. Of course he can get his wife a job as a sandwich maker, though. Just as an aside, she's actually a very lovely woman and super talented at making sandwiches and had a career in the sandwich arts before him and would no doubt continue to have one without him. But the point is that I'm also a good sandwich maker! For fuck's sake, I'm the one who made the goddamn sandwich that made him so popular in the first place! And now my friend is saying that maybe I _shouldn't_ make his new sandwich after all and that I should take a break from sandwich artistry altogether which is ridiculous because I've been making sandwiches my entire goddamn life and it's the only thing I'm good at except maybe I'm not even really good and maybe my whole life is a lie! But who am I without sandwiches? I really wanted to make that sandwich. I needed it. I needed _something."_ Richie realizes he's on the verge of tears. He rubs his eyes with shaky hands.

"Wow. So that's a lot for me to take in. Are the sandwiches a metaphor for meth? Because what I got from that story is that the restaurant is a meth lab, the owners are the cartel, your friend is the guy who comes up with recipes for meth, and you're the cooker."

"I don't make meth." Richie glares at him, and then he can't help but laugh. Eddie's laughing with him.

The train stops at Jefferson Street and the doors open just as the laughter wears off.

"Look, you don't have to tell me what you really do. I’m just glad that you got something that’s very clearly weighing you down off your chest. Tonight isn’t about my mom who I hate or your struggle through the sandwich industry. Let’s just have fun, okay?”

"Okay," Richie agrees.

  


Eddie's apartment is… normal? At least Richie thinks it might be normal. He's not really sure. It's small. Very small, actually. The kitchen is a stone's throw away from the couch and everything seems to be on top of each other. But what catches Richie's eye is the fact that there's no T.V. in sight.

The first thing Eddie does after letting them in is wash his hands in the kitchen sink. Richie stands awkwardly in the living area, trying not to watch Eddie's ass as he dries his hands off. The leather pants aren't helping. Eddie pulls out a bottle of Pink Moscato out of the cupboard and pours them each a glass. He makes Richie wash his hands too before he'll hand over the wine.

Eddie puts on some music and sits him down on the couch.

“So, you don’t have a T.V?” Richie asks.

“Is that a problem?” Eddie laughs. “I can think of a better way to entertain ourselves.”

“Yeah, but why don’t you have a T.V?”

“Another T.V. conversation, really? Lots of people don’t have T.V.s.”

“So you watch Netflix? Hulu? Amazon Video? Sling T.V? CBS All Access? HBO Go?”

“Wow, you certainly are up to date with your streaming services. My roommate has Netflix. Sometimes I watch with her.”

“Do you not like T.V. shows, then? What about movies?”

“It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just that I prefer reading. Like I said, my mom was strict. We had a T.V. but she kept most of the channels blocked. Until I was ten, the only channel I was allowed to watch without her pre-approving was PBS. And then she blocked PBS too because it’s ‘liberal indoctrination.’”

“Did you not watch T.V. at your friends’ houses?”

Eddie takes drains the rest of his Moscato. “I didn’t really have a lot of friends. There was one girl but her house was… not good. We mainly hung out outside. We had very active imaginations, you know? She’s actually my roommate now. We kind of escaped together, I guess. But, uh, anyway, after a whole childhood of having my mom deciding every bit of media I was allowed to watch, I ended up not caring about any of it. My friend likes to make fun of me for being the most out of the loop person she knows.”

“Huh.”

Richie finishes his drink and folds his hands in his lap. Eddie puts his drink down too and crawls over to Richie. He kisses him again. This time it’s all tongue and teeth and stubble and lips all at once. Eddie takes Richie’s hand and puts it on his ass. Eddie starts to grind in his lap, but pulls away.

Just as Richie thinks Eddie is about to kiss him again, he says, “You don’t have a lot of hookups, do you?”

“A hookup,” Richie tastes the word. It’s only now that it really dawns on him that that is what this is. He’s really doing this.

“Oh my God, you’re a bottom too, aren’t you? Shit, I thought I had you pegged, no pun intended. I hate when this happens. Wanna flip a coin for it?”

_Nothing more horrifying_

“What? No. I, uh, I–“

_than a man_

“Want to top?”

_who acts like a woman._

Richie coughs. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like to do that.”

"When's the last time you were tested?"

"Tested?"

"For STDs. Please God, tell me you've been tested. You are way too cute and I had to work way too hard to get you here–"

"It's been two years since I last had sex."

"Woah. That's… Why?"

Richie shrugs as noncommittally as he can manage. “I, uh, I didn’t even realize it’s been that long until now. I just… I don’t know. My last relationship ended amicably and I’m definitely not hung up on it. But… I don’t know. I’ve been sad for a while. I’ve been really sad, actually. I haven't felt like going out and having sex. I don't know why, I thought it was because of the sandwich… but maybe it's just me. Does that kill the mood?”

“No. I mean really, what are hookups other than just two sad people making each other feel better for a night?”

“That’s a cynical way of looking at things. You're sad too?"

"I think everyone's a little sad. It's just ingrained in us as a species."

"So it has to be that way? We can never be happy?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd say that. I'm happy a lot of the time. Most of the time, probably. I'm hundreds of miles away from where I grew up, I have lots of friends now, I enjoy school, I love my jobs, even though they're stupid and don't pay much. You know, I don't actually think sadness and happiness are mutually exclusive. I'm happy that I finally get to be myself, but at the same time I'm sad that it took me so long and that it's still hard for me to figure out who that self really is. But maybe the sadness is okay. Maybe it makes the happiness that's there too somehow better. More real. Earned. And maybe if you've never really been sad, you can never really be happy either."

"I never thought about it like that."

"Most people don't. Do you have things in your life that make you happy?"

Well, does he? Richie goes through Eddie's list, but it's all different for him. He's still in the same town he grew up. His only friends are two people he was once in love with and their respective spouses. He never really had school. As for his job… well he's not sure. And does he get to be himself? "No," Richie finally says. "Not really."

"Then maybe it's time you made a change in your life."

"It's really not that easy. Our situations are very different."

"If you say so." Eddie puts his hand on Richie's thigh again. "So, two years is a long time." He moves his hand up and rubs Richie through his pants. "You ready to break that dry spell? Did your last boyfriend ever make you feel good?"

"Girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?"

"I'm bi."

"I figured. It's just… you've never been with a man before, have you? That's why you've been acting awkward. You know this is the first time I've brought a boy from a bar up here who wanted to talk to me before fucking me. It's cute."

"I still want to fuck you, though."

Eddie grins. "Well, I would hope so. You're lucky I'm a good teacher."  Richie moves in to kiss Eddie, but he's stopped. "Bedroom," Eddie whispers in a low, husky voice.

He leads him to a room that's about the size of Richie's closet. The bed is made with the blankets tucked tight under the mattress. Eddie sits him down on it and straddles him.

Richie can't do anything but moan.

"You gonna take care of me?" Eddie asks in a husky whisper. "Gonna make me feel good?" Eddie brings Richie's hands to the hem of his own shirt. Richie takes it off for him. He kisses Eddie's neck and caresses his bare chest. "Nothing else matters right now, just you and me, Richie."

"Fuck."

"Ok, Richie, wanna show me your footlong?"

"I appreciate what you did there, but I hope you're not actually expecting–"

"Just shut up and take your pants off."

Richie’s never been with a man before, but it turns out he’s a quick learner.


	2. The Thing About Breakdowns

#  The Thing About Breakdowns

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

Richie wakes up in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar woman in the doorway staring at him. She has short red hair styled into a tousled bob and her red-painted lips hang open in shock. She's wearing a pair of Ray-Bans despite being indoors, black high-heeled boots, a black miniskirt, black tights, a black shirt, and a bright red silk scarf around her neck that matches her hair. She's all intense black and red. 

There's a distinct difference between New York beauty and LA beauty. New York favors uniqueness with distinct and sometimes unusual features; LA is a little more trendy, a little more conscious, a little more perfect. This woman would be considered gorgeous in both cities. It only makes her more intimidating. 

“Oh my  _ God!”  _

“Bev, what are you doing in my room?” Eddie rubs his eyes and sits up. He looks over at Richie. “Oh, you’re still here.” Richie can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

“Ben!” Bev shouts. “Get in here! You are not going to believe this.”

“Can you not call your boyfriend into my room when I’m not wearing pants and have a cute boy in my bed?” Eddie asks her. Richie is seriously considering hiding under the blankets.

A guy, Ben presumably, joins Bev in the doorway. He's quite attractive too, although unlike his girlfriend, he doesn't seem to realize it. He's wearing jeans and a Crimson Tide tee shirt. Richie thinks they make an odd pair. Richie also thinks they need to leave right now.

“Oh my God. Is that who it looks like?” Ben asks. 

“I think it is.”

“What are you two talking about?” Eddie ask through a yawn. 

“Eddie, you slept with Richard Tozier,” Bev says. 

“Who? What?”

“Richard Tozier. You beautiful, ignorant, little star child. I know you’re pop-culture stupid, but this… Oh my God.”

All the air is sucked from Richie’s chest. 

“I need… I need to get out of here,” he throws the sheets off and pulls his pants on. Neither Bev nor Ben look away. They might be too shocked to. “I… fuck. Fuck! Sorry. Shit. Fuck. I need to call Stan.”

“What the hell is going on?” Eddie asks. “Who’s Stan?”

“He’s my fiduciary,” Richie says as he grabs his shirt off the nightstand where it landed last night. Two of the buttons are gone. 

“What’s a fiduciary?”

“It’s like an accountant who can’t fuck you over.”

“Why would you need to call your accountant? What is happening? Who is Richard Tozier?”

“I’m Richard Tozier! A fucking Oscar-winning train wreck!” Richie shouts. He turns to Bev. “There! You got me! Congratulations! What do you want to keep quiet about all of this? A picture? An autograph? Hush money? Am I going to have to pay all of you off? Fuck!”

Eddie stares at him from the bed with wide, impossible to read eyes. Everything is ruined. He knows who Richie is now and they can’t go back. Richie can’t pretend that he isn’t himself anymore. Only, last night it felt like the first time he wasn’t pretending in a very long time. It’s a funny thing. Yesterday was a lie. Yesterday was a truth. Richie isn't sure he can tell the difference anymore. All he knows is that last night was a sweet, strange farce of a thing and now it’s gone with no chance of ever coming back. 

Irreversibility has a way of haunting him. Permanence. The linear nature of life. Points in time that can never be recovered. Friendships that can never be recovered. A sense of self that can never be recovered. And now… it was one night. One night and Eddie was shocked to find him still in bed the next morning. A hookup. 

"You're an actor," Eddie says. 

"Fuck!" Richie yells again. His vision starts to blur. 

“Hey man, chill out,” Ben says in an impossibly even voice. 

“Chill out? Chill  _ out?” _

“Yeah, maybe try some deep breathing?”

“Deep breathing–" Richie feels the same way he did in Times Square, only it’s even worse now. Eddie’s tiny apartment is suffocating him and he can’t get even a shallow breath in, much less a deep one. This time he really is crying. He collapses on the floor and brings his knees up to his chest. Everything’s fucked. He thinks he might be one the verge of a heart attack. He knows he is. He's going to die in a tiny apartment in Bushwick and Ben wants him to  _ chill out.  _

He's fallen off the deep end and the whole world is going to know. The studio executives in charge of Bill's new project told Bill that he was a ticking time bomb. They were right. Bill won't let him live it down. Stan won't either. They already think he’s immature and neurotic. Now they have the evidence. Irreversible.

It's all going to get out. It might already be out. Everyone will know he's unstable. Everyone will think he’s gay. People will invade his ex-girlfriend's social media pages.  _ Did you know he was gay when you were together? Did he tell you? Did he touch you? Was your relationship even real in the first place? We have to know. We’re your fans. You owe it to us.  _ Irreversible. 

As for Richie's own fans… well, he’s not quite sure. Lots of people with all sorts of views like him. They're supposed to. To be a major movie star, you don’t get to have the individuality that makes niche actors unique. He's supposed to keep quiet so as many Americans as possible can project their views onto him and get their asses into movie theatre seats. Richie gets to go to galas supporting LGBT charities. Richie gets to be photographed as the best man at his friend's wedding to another man. Richie gets to attract a queer audience by proxy. Richie does not get to be queer himself. And now the world will know that he is. Irreversible. 

Last night, everything made sense. Last night, he was drunk.

It doesn't matter though, because Richie won't be alive to deal with what comes next. The edges of his vision starts the gray and his heart just keeps beating faster and faster. 

Suddenly, Eddie is sitting next to him, fully clothed and rubbing his back.

"Just breathe, Richie."

Breathe? He can't breathe. Not when everything is crumbling. Things can’t uncrumble, after all. 

"No, no, no, no, no," Richie mutters. "I can't– I–"

"Don't talk. Breathe."

And so Richie tries. In and out and in and out and in and out. He feels trapped. Caged. His limbs are jittery and his heart doesn't seem to even remember what a natural rhythm is.

Bev hands him a glass of water from out of nowhere and Richie stares at it for a second before he realizes he's supposed to drink it. His hands are shaking so hard that he can barely bring it up to his lips. He drinks it all down in one gulp, even though Eddie tells him not to.

"You're okay," Eddie soothes. "I promise you are."

"We're not going to tell anyone," Ben says. "We're good people."

"Everyone thinks they're good people," Richie says. He refuses to look at Eddie. He can't. Not anymore. Not now that he knows who he is. So he looks at the floor instead. "Now name your fucking price and I’ll see what I can do."

"We really don't want anything," Bev says. Her voice sounds like she's talking to a spooked animal. That's probably because she is. "Sorry Richard, I didn't mean to freak you out."

"Don't call me Richard. You don't know me. None of you know me. Don't pretend that you know someone who you do not know."

"I'm sorry."

"Good! You fucking should be!" Richie snaps. 

"Man, she said she was sorry and she didn't even really do anything wrong. You can't talk to people like that." Ben says. 

It makes Richie remember something Stan once yelled at him after they got into a fight as teenagers.  _ People who aren't you have feelings too, asshole.  _ Then again, Richie hadn't been able to swallow his pride to apologize then either.

"Fine." It's the best he can manage. 

"Will you guys leave us alone for a few minutes?" Eddie half-whispers.

Bev and Ben leave the room. Richie keeps his eyes on the floor. He spies one of his buttons under the bed.

"So, uh, you're famous?" Eddie asks just as Richie's breathing begins to even out.

"Yeah."

"Like really famous?"

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"I know."

"Can you look at me?"

"No."

"Ok." Eddie lets them sit in silence for a minute or two. He stops rubbing Richie's back. Richie wishes he wouldn't. He needs to leave. He has no idea how he would even begin to leave. No money. No phone. A dollar and twenty-five cents on his MetroCard. A world that’s just waiting for a chance to rip him to shreds. People love famous people. People love watching famous people come unglued more. Finally, when Richie's just about to get up and walk out into the terrifying unknown, Eddie speaks again, "The sex was good."

"What?"

"The sex. It was good. Really good."

And that's just such a damned unexpected thing for him to say that it makes Richie burst out laughing. Maybe that's why he said it. 

"I think I ruined my life last night," Richie admits once the laughter has finally worn off.

"Ok. So the sex was very good for me, but life-ruining-good for you. Does that mean I win?"

Richie doesn't laugh this time.

"That's not what I meant," he says.

"I know." Silence again. "But Bev and Ben weren't lying. They don't want anything and they aren't going to tell anyone."

"What about you?"

"Do you really think I would do anything like that?"

"I don't know you."

"You got to know me pretty well last night. In fact, you got to know me a lot better than I got to know you. I'm assuming sandwiches are movies?"

"No."

"No?"

"The restaurant is the studio, the owners are the executives, my friend is the screenwriter, I'm the actor, and the sandwiches are scripts."

"Then what's the movie?"

"The whole thing, I guess."

"That's such a convoluted metaphor."

"Well, like I said, my friend is the writer, not me."

Richie sees the other missing button. It's under the nightstand. The sex really was that good. "You could sell a really good story, you know. You met me last night at a gay bar, I admitted that I was thrown off a project for being unstable, I confessed to you that I'm having some sort of breakdown, and then we went back to your place and had sex. You'd make a whole lot of money. Two hundred for the story alone. Make it an exclusive and add another hundred. Take a picture of me while I'm still here with my shirt unbuttoned and my eyes red from crying, and you can tack on a thousand or two. Take more photos and it'll be an extra five hundred for each one they use. Kiss me and get your friends to record? That's ten thousand. Take pictures of the state of your bed. Take pictures of the condom in the trash." Richie collects the buttons and hands them to Eddie without looking at him. He's scared of what he might find. "Auction these off to the highest bidder. And if you're willing to discuss all the juicy details on camera, I bet you could rack up a total of thirty thousand or more, so long as you go to the right people."

"Thirty thousand dollars?"

"Thirty thousand dollars. You could move to the East Village."

"Wow. I should totally do that."

"You should." Richie's heart feels numb.

"I was being sarcastic, dumbass. I would never do anything like that."

"It's a lot of money."

"It's not who I am."

"Then who are you?"

"Someone who has to get to work in an hour,” Eddie says with a laugh. It’s a beautiful thing. 

"What? The bar needs you on a Sunday morning?"

"I don't just work at the bar."

"You have two jobs?"

"I have three jobs."

"Three? Why the hell do you need three jobs?"

"Uh, money would be my primary motivation, if I had to name one," Eddie laughs again. "I tutor Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I bartend Friday night and Saturday night, and I drive cabs during the day on Saturday and Sunday."

"I thought you said you go to NYU."

"I do go to NYU. Tuition there is one of the highest in the country and I'm trying to graduate without debt."

"Huh. Maybe you really should sell to the tabloids."

"Maybe I should."

"Eddie–"

"I'm kidding! Oh my God, you fell for it twice. Maybe I'm the one who should be the actor. But seriously, I'm not going to sell and it's not even because of you."

"Then why?"

"Because I respect myself. I'm not the kind of person who would exploit someone and I don't know if I could live with myself if I were. But God. Thirty thousand is a lot of fucking money. Just out of curiosity, how long does it take someone like you to go through all of that?"

Richie shrugs. "I'm not sure. I know I was paid twenty million for my last movie. I’m usually paid in that ballpark for all my projects these days. My fiduciary gives me a little over a thousand each week to spend on whatever I want. Sometimes I save a bit, but usually, I spend it all. He makes sure everything else is paid for. I know Forbes estimates my networth to be around forty million. Stan says it's much higher because of how he's invested my money."

"So he handles all your money for you?"

"That’s his job. It allows me to focus on other things."

"Like having nervous breakdowns?"

"Exactly!" Richie laughs.

Eddie hums. "So…"

"This is awkward."

"It doesn't have to be."

"I really couldn't believe that you didn't know who I was when we met last night."

"Are you really that famous?"

"I'm really that famous. It's all consuming. I don't know how else to say it."

"How old were you when you started acting?"

"Four. I was walking down the street with my mom and some guy came up to them and told them he was a talent scout. A month later I was starring in a commercial for Bazooka Gum. I haven't stopped working since."

"Geez. Do you hate your parents for it?"

"Doesn't everybody hate their parents? I mean you said yourself that you hate your mom."

"I loved my dad. He… he died when I was seven. I don't remember him much, but I do remember loving him. He had to work a lot. We weren't rich, you know. Lots of times he'd be at work until nine or later, but every night, no matter how exhausted he was, he'd come up to my room and kiss me on the forehead. I couldn't go to sleep until he did. After he died, I spent so many nights just lying in bed awake waiting for him to come up and kiss me. I loved him so much."

"My dad died when I was little, too. A few months before the talent scout, actually. I'd just turned four. It, uh, it was really out of the fucking blue, you know? He wasn't sick. There was an accident and then he was dead. Just like that. I'm sure I loved him. I just don't remember. Maybe he kissed my forehead too. Maybe he didn't. You know, it's stupid, but sometimes I'll catch myself looking down at my hands and I'll think that maybe they're his. I just want for a part of him to be a part of me too." 

Richie doesn't talk about his dad a lot. It probably started with his mom. Went has been dead for twenty one years and she still isn't healed from it. She handles it by not handling it. For Richie's entire childhood, his dad was an unspoken ghost. So why would it be any different in adulthood? He's never learned how to speak about the dead, how to cope with that one final irreversibility, and so he generally doesn't. He's talked about it a little with Stan. A little with Mike. Once with Bill. And now with Eddie too. 

"What about your mom?" Eddie asks. 

"Well, after Dad died I think she didn't really know what to do with me. I was hyper and fearless, which as you might imagine is a pretty dangerous combination. Acting seemed like a good way to get all that energy out. And it was. I really thought it was fun too. I was never forced into it and I craved the attention. That’s the trick though. No child actor who hates what they do stays in the game very long, even if their parents want them to. You have to enjoy it to be good at it. Hollywood likes the funny kid and the loud kid and the annoying kid because that kid isn’t scared. That kid will say his lines and sell your gum and make you laugh. I would tell jokes and do voices and impressions and all sorts of things at auditions. Casting directors loved me. Other kids would hide under their mother’s dresses or mumble their reads, but I would have the whole room laughing before I even got a script in my hand. So my mom saw how much I loved it and let me keep doing it. Isn’t that weird how I said that? That she  _ let _ me keep doing it. When I was ten or so, she wanted me to dial back and focus on school, but by then it was already the life I knew. It was the life I loved. So it had to be my choice to keep going. Of course my agent was all too happy to help me to convince her to keep working. After all, she was the one who fucking got me started in the first place. But, uh, to answer your question, no, I don’t hate my mom. She, uh, she did the best that she could and that was great and it’s all fine. I was a happy kid until I wasn't. Does that make sense at all? It's just… I'll never know who I was going to be if that talent scout had never seen something in me. I think I'd be more of myself.”

“What do you mean? If you aren’t yourself now, then who are you?"

"I don't know. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll get out of your hair and then we can go back to being sad people separately again."

Silence hangs for a while. A bit too long actually. Finally, Eddie says, “Okay. Right.”

“Can I borrow your phone? I, uh, I really do need to call Stan. He has no idea that I'm okay."

"Why does he need to know you're okay first thing Sunday morning?"

"Because he's also my best friend."

"You're best friends with your accountant?"

"We were friends before. I have a strange life."

"I'm beginning to see that."

"Can I borrow your phone? I sort of lost mine last night.”

"Can you look at me first? Please?”

And so Richie looks at him. Eddie is still just as beautiful as he was last night. After they had sex, Eddie insisted on taking his makeup off before going to bed. He looks different without it, but not much. His eyes are still insane. Somehow, it makes Richie want to trust them. Eddie cups his chin and kisses him, sweetly and tenderly. It is not the kiss of two people who fucked each other's brains out a few hours after meeting. It's a lover's kiss. Apparently, Richie really doesn't understand how hookups work. 

"You taste like morning breath," Eddie says as he pulls his phone out of the back pocket of the pants he was wearing last night. He tosses it Richie's way. It's a flip phone because of course it is.

"You know, I think you might be due for an update."

"What? No. I love this phone. I've had it for years."

"Clearly."

"It’s a good phone! I only have to charge it every few days and I save a lot on data."

"What do you mean?"

"Right. I'm assuming your accountant takes care of your phone bill for you."

"Yep."

"Ok then. I'm going to brush my teeth while you make your call."

Eddie stands up to leave. Richie stops him.

"Wait. You don't happen to have my contacts, do you?"

"Oh my God."

  
  


They all pack into Eddie's cab and head in the vague direction of Richie's phone. Bev and Ben are in the back and Richie's up front with the window down, the wind in his hair, and Bev's oversized sunglasses on his face. It turns out that they're not actually Ray-Bans, but Roy-Bans, which Bev reassures him are just as good as Ray-Bans but much easier to buy at shady street markets for five dollars.

"They don't collect trash on Sundays, do they?" Richie asks. 

"They collect trash every day. Do you even remember where you were when you threw your phone away?" Eddie says. 

"I was in midtown."

"That really doesn't narrow it down. Can you try to remember?"

"Well, it was on the East Side because I eventually ended up at Hump. Maybe Fourth Avenue?"

"There's no Fourth Avenue. It goes Third, Park, and then Fifth."

"That makes no sense, why wouldn't there be a Fourth Avenue?"

"We're getting off topic," Ben says.

"Ok, ok. I'm pretty sure I was on Park and Forty-something."

"You were on Third and Forty-second," Bev says.

"That's sounds about right. Wait, how would you know?"

Bev hands her phone over to Richie through the money slot in the bullet-proof divider. "I'm sorry. I looked you up as we were leaving the apartment. This is the first thing that came up."

Richie braces himself. It’s starting then. The consequences of last night are catching up with him. There was bound to be gossip about him this morning, and he's not exactly sure he's ready to know what it is. A picture of him at the club surely. Mrs. Denninger is probably already working out a way to pass off him being there as something he did in support of the LGBT community. But then again, he didn't lose his phone in front of the club.

He takes Bev's phone. It's on an article from the  _ Daily Mail:  _

BEEFCAKE LOSES IT OVER CHEESECAKE

Richie almost wants to laugh. Almost. There's a photo set of him from last night. Him aggressively opening a bag from Olive Garden. Him licking cheesecake off his thumb. Him scowling at it and pushing something into it. Him throwing it all in the trash. Him pushing his hair in front of his face. Him giving the double bird to the camera. Him having a nervous breakdown. It's bad. And well, if anyone has realized that it's his phone he put in the cheesecake, then it's about to get worse.

"Step on it, Eddie," Richie says.

"Step on  _ what?  _ We're on the fucking Williamsburg Bridge in morning traffic. It doesn't matter if it's Sunday, it's still going to take us at least another twenty minutes to get to Third and Forty-second when we aren't even on the fucking island yet."

"Just go faster!"

"I can't go any faster than the flow of traffic allows and right now the flow of traffic is zero miles per hour because we're in a fucking traffic jam!”

"There's like a few feet between you and the car in front of us. Close the gap."

Eddie hits the gas and then the break in quick succession. The sunglasses fly off of Richie's face and out the window. The car in the lane beside them runs them over. "There. Happy?" Eddie says.

"Oh no! My sunglasses!" 

"You mean  _ my  _ sunglasses," Bev says. "You owe me a pair of Roy-Bans!"

"Ok, ok! Do you want me to buy you a pair of Calvin Kernel jeans to match? How about some Fucci? Channel? Dolce and Banana?"

"Hey! Roy-Bans are a very respected Chinese knock off brand. Eddie, next time you fuck someone famous, can you make sure it's someone nicer?" Bev says. 

"I'll have you know I'm very nice for a famous person," Richie says.

"Hey, do you think it's possible that I've had sex other famous people without realizing it?" Eddie says.

"I'm uncomfortable and would like to get out, please," Ben says.

Richie rolls up the window and puts a hand over his face before anyone can spot him. "Ben, can I have your sunglasses?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because they're mine and I saw what just happened to Beverly’s."

"Here, takes this," Bev unwraps the scarf from around her neck and pushes it through the money slot. "Wrap it around your hair like Queen Elizabeth and everyone will just think you're a pretty lady."

_ There's nothing more horrifying _

"Why were you wearing a scarf in the summer in the first place?" Ben asks. 

_ than a man _

"Ben, you should know by now that fashion needs no explanation."

_ who acts like a woman. _

“I’m not wearing this,” Richie snaps. The levity is gone. “I’m not a–“

“A what?”

A fairy? A queer? A fag? Richie’s pretty sure those words were all in the script. He’s pretty sure he had to say them. But he doesn’t believe them. Not him. He's pretty sure.  

"Richie?" Eddie says.

"What?"

"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing. I wasn't going to say anything." Richie takes the scarf and Bev's phone and hands them back through the slot. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" Bev says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Really."

"You know, people usually only say that they're fine when they aren't fine."

"Why shouldn't I be fine? Everything's going just great. Really spectacular. Nevermind the fact that my wallet is empty and my phone is in a fucking trash can. That is if it's still there and not in the back of a garbage truck or in the hands of some random stranger."

"Hey, it's going to be ok,” Bev says. “You know that, right? If worst comes to worst, you can come back to our place and crash for a few days. Right, Eddie? Isn't he just too cute to throw out on the street?"

Eddie stays quiet. 

Richie doesn’t let himself imagine a world where he would have a college degree and a normal job. He doesn’t let himself imagine a world where he would take the subway everyday. He doesn’t let himself imagine a world where he could go to restaurants and nightclubs and even just the fucking corner store and not be recognized. He doesn’t let himself imagine a world where he could ask Eddie out on a date. And because of that, he won’t let himself stay at their apartment. 

It’s too dangerous. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be out of everyone’s hair by the end of the day. If the phone is gone, then it’s gone. I know people in the city. Other actors, producers, directors… you know, the works. I have connects. Connections. Whatever. Someone will help me out. I’ll be back in LA by tomorrow morning.” It's performative. Keeping cool. Pretending he'll be okay. Pretending that he doesn't need them. That he doesn't need anyone. It's better to stay detached. 

“Wait, really? You're going back already?" Bev says. "You should stay in the city for a few days!”

“Coming here in the first place was a mistake. Why would I stay?” 

“Because it’s a helluva town!"

"She has a point," Ben says.

"And besides, we like you," Bev adds. 

Eddie is still quiet. The traffic finally starts moving again and he keeps his eyes firmly on the road. 

"I was mean to both of you this morning. I shouldn't expect you to excuse my behavior just because I'm famous." Richie wants to be proud of himself for saying that, but the truth is that it's something Bill once yelled at him. 

"I mean sure you were rude, but I was rude first," Bev says. "I shouldn't have freaked out when I saw you in bed with Eddie and I definitely shouldn't have brought Ben in to look at you. That's not the type of person I am."

"There's something about celebrities that makes people compromise their own basic morals. It's like the whole shock of seeing someone famous is enough to make people forget how to treat others. I don't blame you for how you acted. I'm used to it. People either cater to my every wish or they treat me like a spectacle that they're entitled to." Everyone except Eddie, Richie thinks but does not say. "I'm not a person. I'm a novelty."

"I'm so sorry," Bev says.

"I'm sorry too," Ben says.

"It's okay. Really it is," Richie says.

“I would hug you so hard right now if it weren’t for the stupid divider. And I was being serious a minute ago. You should stay in New York for at least a couple more days. We can show you how to really have fun around here. I mean Ben and I are off for the summer and Eddie only has two classes so you could totally hang out with us. I know we aren't as fancy as all your famous friends in the city, but we're fun!"

It's tempting. Terribly so. It occurs to him that if Mrs. Denninger ever finds out that he's in this cab with them, she'll probably pay them all to sign non-disclosure agreements and break off contact immediately. It also occurs to him that this is the logical route. He wants to tell Bev that they don't really want to hang out with him, they want to hang out with the guy they see in the movies. He's afraid that she wouldn't understand the difference. He wants to tell her that if he hung around with them, they would be hounded by people taking pictures of them. He's afraid that that's what she wants. He wants to tell her that nothing good would come of it. He's afraid of the opposite being true. 

"Isn't it strange to invite your roommate's one night stand to hang out with you?" he asks. It’s the easiest thing to say. 

"Maybe. But there's nothing about this situation that isn't strange already," Bev says.

"Eddie, it wouldn't be weird for you, would it?" Ben asks.

Eddie clears his throat. "Uh, it might be."

Richie's heart breaks. A hookup. A one night stand. A calamity.

The rest of the ride is near silent. Richie is uncomfortable and wants to get out, please. 

 

Richie slouches over in the front seat. He is half veiling his face. He is half watching Bev, Ben, and Eddie dig through the garbage can he threw his phone into last night. And most importantly, he is wholly focused on not being upset. Of course it would be weird for Eddie. This whole thing must be weird for him. It's weird for Richie too. But after the way Eddie told him that things didn't have to be awkward this morning, after their talk, after the way he made Richie look him in the eye and kissed him… Richie doesn't get Eddie. Doesn't get him at all. 

Bev pulls an Olive Garden bag out of the trash. She jumps into the front seat of the cab and hands it to Richie. It's inexplicably wet and a thousand different types of gross.

"Is this it?" she asks.

Richie opens the bag. There the takeout box is, plan as day, with the waiter's handwriting written on the top.  _ The Olive Garden, when you're here, you're a piece of shit!  _ The phone is still inside too. The smell of the cheesecake that's marinated in garbage overnight is enough to make him gag. His phone is covered in gummy desert coagulated across the screen.  

Bev reaches across him and opens the glove box. Inside is a verifiable arsenal of hand sanitizer, disinfectant, and wet naps. Richie cleans his phone off and turns it on. It’s a miracle that it isn’t dead. There are over a hundred missed phone calls. Fifty texts. 

It starts with the same sort of pestering from the night before. 

 

_ Stan. 9:00 p.m. PDT _

_ Answer the phone! . _

_ Where are you? _

_ Where are you? _

_ Where are you? _

_ Where are you? _

_ Where are you? _

 

_ Mike. 9:02 p.m. PDT _

_ Call Stan. _

_ Call Stan. _

_ Call Stan. _

_ Call Stan. _

_ Call me. _

_ Call me. _

_ Call me.  _

 

_ Audra. 9:34 p.m. PDT  _

_ Stan just called and told me what's going on. _

_ Richie. _

_ Richie. _

_ Richie. _

_ Richie. _

_ Richie. _

 

It becomes frantic. 

 

_ Stan. 9:40 p.m. PDT _

_ It's almost midnight over there.  _

_ Where are you? _

_ Where are you! _

_ Your PIN is 7293. _

_ I should have just given it to you in the first place. _

_ I'm sorry. _

_ Get a hotel room.  _

_ Remember how much we all love you. _

_ I’m looking at plane tickets _

_ Please call me _

_ Please _

 

_ Bill. 10:02 p.m. PDT _

_ Just got off set and heard you ran off to New York? _

_ Richie, what the hell? _

_ Stan says he's scared. _

_ Does he have a reason to be scared? _

_ Richie _

_ Richie!! _

_ Look, this isn't funny for us. _

_ This isn't funny for me.  _

_ Audra is crying. _

_ You made my wife cry. _

_ This is so indescribably selfish, even coming from you. _

_ Do you have any idea how you’re making us feel? _

_ Do you even fucking care? _

_ I didn't mean that. _

_ I'm scared too. _

 

_ Mike. 10:14 p.m. PDT _

_ Stan is pulling his ear off with worry _

_ I’m assuming you got rid of your phone _

_ Stan says you wouldn’t do that _

_ But I think we all know that you would  _

_ I really hope you’re okay _

_ If you see these texts at all, all you have to do is send one back to any of us  _

_ Just let us know that you’re safe _

_ We’re trying to decide whether or not we need to call the police  _

 

_ Audra. 10:29 p.m.  _

_ Do you want me to fly over there to be with you?? _

_ We can go somewhere else _

_ Get away, you know? _

_ Bill wouldn’t come _

_ I know you’re upset with him _

_ It’s tearing him up _

_ We could go far away for awhile _

_ Sometimes I want to escape too _

_ We could find a sleepy little town in England and just rest _

_ We can watch stupid movies with all the people we hate and trash talk them and eat all the junk food our managers don’t want us to eat  _

_ Please don’t give up on sobriety  _

_ Please don’t do something worse _

 

And then, worst of all, are long, deeply personal messages. They’re pleading.

 

_ Audra. 11:30 p.m. PDT _

_ Remember when we first met? We were the biggest fucking messes just doing coke to keep feeling alive. To feel like something. We helped each other become better people. You’re such a good person and you’re so young. You have so much in life ahead of you, no matter how you want to spend it. If you want out of LA, we can find somewhere away from all this mess where you can live a normal life for awhile. I love you so much. If you’re reading this at all, I just need you to know that, okay? _

_ You mean so much to me. You mean so much to all of us.  _

 

_ Mike. 11:30 p.m. PDT _

_ You’re the funniest, stupidest, most amazing dork I know. Even when you’re being an asshole, I still love you. I could talk to my parents, I’m sure they’d let you stay at the farm for however long you need. Cleaning up chicken shit and pulling crops isn’t exactly fun, but maybe it’d be therapeutic for you. My folks are good people. You met them at the wedding, remember? They hugged you because they do that to all of my friends because they delight in embarrassing me. Maybe it would be good for you to have them be your embarrassing parents too, I don’t mind sharing.  Stan and I could come with you, if you wanted. Wouldn’t it be funny to watch Stan on a farm?  _

_ But seriously man, I love you.  _

 

_ Bill. 11:30 p.m. PDT _

_ I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say, Richie. I'm so sorry about all of this. I respect you so much as an actor, as a friend, and as a person. I thought you knew that, but maybe I don't say it enough. I wanted you for the part and I still do, but clearly there's something going on. The execs saw it and so do I. Your mental health comes before anything. I'm not saying this as a screenwriter who's worried his actor might not be able to finish a project, I'm saying this as your friend. I know things haven’t been the best between us for awhile now. I don’t know why. I think if we weren’t all worried that something like this would happen, we wouldn’t be so scared.  _

_ You're like a brother to me, and you know I don't use that term lightly.  _

_ I can’t lose another brother.  _

 

There isn’t one from Stan. Maybe he gave up on him. The thought is enough to make Richie's palms sweat. Of all the potential consequences of his night out, this is one that he hadn't considered. 

The texts stop after that. The phone calls stop too shortly after. It seems they finally came to terms with the fact that he didn’t have his phone. He wonders if they ended up calling the police. Surely he would know by now if they did. Surely it would be on the news. 

Richie tries to compose himself. 

“Is everything ok?” Bev asks. It’s probably pretty clear that it isn’t. 

“Yeah. It’s all fine.” There goes that word again. Fine. 

“Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Ok. I’m gonna leave you alone in here so you can make your call. There’s one of those tacky I Heart NYC stores around the corner. Want me to buy you a really stupid disguise?”

“Uh, yeah. That’d be cool.”

“Alright. I’ll take Ben with me, but I’ll make sure Eddie stays around here in case anyone tries to get in the cab. People are stupid like that sometimes.”

“Thanks. I’ll, uh, pay you back as soon as I can. Pay Eddie for the ride too. Get you a new pair of sunglasses. Compensate you all for your troubles.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“No, Richie. Just take it as a kindness, ok?”

"Ok."

Beverly makes to get out of the car but stops before she opens the door. "About Eddie… he doesn't really date. At least not for very long. I think his longest relationship was for two months and that was a few years ago. It’s not about you. In fact, I think he really likes you. Which knowing him, probably means that he’s going to act aloof. But maybe tell him that you’re interested and see where it takes you.”

“I’m not interested in him. It was a one night thing.”

“You know, for an actor, you’re pretty bad at lying.”

She takes his hand, gives it a squeeze, and then she leaves him alone in the cab. 

Richie takes a deep breath. He stares at his phone. Takes a deep breath. Stares at his phone. And then he calls Stan. He answers on the first ring. 

"Richie? Oh my God," Stan's been crying, it's in his voice. "Richie? Are you there?"

"I'm here."

And then Stan starts openly crying. He doesn't cry a lot, but when he does, he has a hard time stopping. It's a terrible feeling to be the one to make him cry. As a person, Stan is the master of control. He isn't emotional. He's dignified. And right now he's sobbing.

"We thought… and then… you wouldn’t answer the phone…"

“Stan, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

"We thought you were dead."

"That's an overreaction."

"Is it?"

Richie doesn't say anything. 

"We all stayed up all night waiting to hear from you. We almost called the police. Mike and I are at Bill and Audra's house."

"Are you all there now?"

"We're all h-here," it's Bill. Richie has only heard him stutter a handful of times since knowing him. It hurts to hear. "We l-love you, Richie."

"Are you safe?" it's Stan again.

"Yeah."

"Where are you?"

"In a cab."

"A cab?"

"Uh huh."

"Ok." Stan starts crying again. "A fucking cab. Jesus. Can the driver hear you?”

“He isn’t in the car.”

“Please tell me you didn’t steal a taxi.”

“No, I didn’t fucking steal a taxi. Is that really what you think of me?”

“I don’t know what to think. I just… what happened? Yesterday… why… just help me understand, Richie.”

“Understand what?”

“Understand  _ you. _ What did you do last night? Did you get a hotel room?”

Richie swallows. He peeks out the window and sure enough, Eddie is standing guard. His back is facing him and Richie slouches down before he can turn around and see him. 

“No. I got rid of my phone before you sent me my PIN. I just got it back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I just said. I lost my phone and then I found it.”

“Where did you lose it? Richie, we were desperate to hear from you. How could you dump your phone?”

“I told you I was going to and you said I wouldn’t.”

“You did this out of spite?” Stan’s voice hitches. 

“No… it just sort of happened. Are you mad?”

“I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m fine.”

“I’m going to be scared until I see you. If you didn’t have your card, where did you stay?”

“With the cab driver.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had sex.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.” Richie doesn’t say anything. “Richie, you didn’t. Say that you didn’t. You had sex with a New York City cab driver? I don’t even know where to start. Did you use protection? Did he take your picture? Does he want money? How old is he? What–"

“Stop it, Stan.”

“You were kidding.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Richie–"

“It’s my fucking life! I deserve to be able to do things like this!”

“What _ things? _ Sleeping a cab driver kind of things?”

“Stop saying it like that! I met him at a club and we went back to his place and we had a good time.”

“Did you use?”

“Use what?”

“Drugs, Richie. Did you get high? Are you high right now? What did you take?”

“I'm not on anything.”

“Is that the truth?”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe when it comes to you.”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. None of us hate you. Did you see our messages? How concerned we were? I don’t know what any of us would do without you. You’re our family. Now let’s get you home.”

  
  


Eddie drives him to the airport.

Beverly bought him a new pair of sunglasses and an extra-large hoodie with the words, 'BIG APPLE' emblazoned on the front. She and Ben both hugged him goodbye. 

It takes an hour and a half to get to JFK and the entire ride is silent. Richie rolls the window down again and this time he's able to keep the sunglasses on his face. As they approach the Delta terminal, Richie is about to get out and forget this whole trip, but he remembers what Bev said.

"Can we maybe find somewhere to talk first?"

Eddie doesn't say anything, but he drives past the terminal and around the expressway to what appears to be a taxi depot. There are at least five hundred empty yellow cabs, maybe more. A group of old men speaking Russian shoot dice behind a wheelchair-accessible cab near the entrance. Maybe that's the kind of cab driver Stan thinks he had sex with. Huh. Eddie looks nonplussed and waves at them as they drive to the far side of the lot. Richie watches in bewilderment. It's all very different from the black car service he uses, to say the least.

Eddie parks and turns to Richie.

"So..." he says.

"I like you, Eddie."

"Like me?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry. It's just… I don't know what it is."

"Richie…"

"What changed? I thought we had a really good time last night, and not just the sex. I liked talking to you and I thought you liked talking to me too. And then this morning… everything was going fine until we were on the Williamsburg Bridge and I don't even know what happened. I don't know what I did–"

"Why wouldn't you wear Bev's scarf?"

"What do you mean?"

"It was just a stupid scarf. You refused to put it on and then you said 'I'm not a–.' You didn't finish your sentence. And don't play it off again. What were you going to say?"

"Is this why you've been giving me the cold shoulder?"

"Are relationships with men a joke to you? Something you can just turn off whenever you want and go back to pretending your straight?"

"Excuse me? That's not how bisexuality works."

"I wasn't saying that and don't pretend that I was. Now tell me what you were going to say."

Richie doesn't say anything.

"Do you want me to guess?" Eddie asks. "Because if I had to, I'd say that you don't want people thinking you're–"

"I have issues."

"What?"

"I have all sorts of issues and I'm sorry, Eddie. I was going to say that I'm not a fag. A fucking fag. I don't know why I was going to say it or why I was even thinking it, it just popped into my head and I didn't want it to be in there, but it just  _ was.  _ I was in this really stupid movie as a kid. Just awful, bro-humor bullshit. And there was this whole thing about effeminate men... and God. It's not just that, either. I've been closeted forever. I've been told that bisexual people are invalid and that queer people can't sell movies and all these things over and over in a fucking industry that's filled with LGBT people who pretend to be straight people who support LGBT people. It's all so fucking fucked up. Do you know how many openly queer actors have won Oscars? Seven. Angelina Jolie was the only one to be out of the closet before getting the award. Fuck that! They've been giving out Oscars for ninety fucking years and only once have they ever given one to an out actor. And they still treat Angelina's sexuality like a fucking joke! They call her relationship with her ex-girlfriend "that time she was a lesbian." And everyone pretends that Hollywood is just this big, gay-positive place. It's all fucking bullshit and that stupid word and all those other stupid words came into my head and I've just put such a big part of my life on hold because I'm scared, and I can't fucking take it."

"Richie." Eddie takes both of his hands and holds them tight. "I'm scared too. I'm always scared. I've always  _ been  _ scared. My mom fucked me up. She told me gay people were sick. She told me I was sick even before she knew I was gay. I get tested for HIV every single month, sometimes more, even though I take PrEP and always use condoms. I don't even do the at-home test. I go to different facilities all around the city and make them do blood tests. I still equate gayness with sickness. And I know the way people look at me... I couldn't hide my sexuality if I tried, and God, I used to try. I'm short and slim and my voice is high and all these stupid things that people pretend determine your sexuality. When I was thirteen, a group of older boys held me down and broke my arm. They spat in my face and called my a fairy. Every winter, when the air gets cold and dry, I can still feel where it broke and it makes me want to start crying all over again. But you can't live your life controlled by fear."

"Bev told me that you don't do relationships. Why?"

"If I said I was scared, just how hypocritical would it sound? People have hookups because they like sex without attachment. I have hookups because I like vulnerability without attachment. Which do you think is more reckless?"

"I like you," Richie says again. "I like you more than anyone should like someone they've known for less than twenty-four hours."

"Yeah, well it's very easy to fall in love with a stranger."

"You don't feel like a stranger."

"You're the one who said we should go back to being sad people separately."

"And you're the one who said sadness and happiness aren't mutually exclusive."

"Goodbyes are always happy-sad."

"Is that what this is?"

Eddie doesn't say anything. He puts the car back into drive and pulls out of the lot. Richie is beginning to resent the sound of nothing. 

"So, uh, Bev told me not to pay, but what's the fare?" Richie asks once they return to the terminal. Pretending is always a soft place to land. 

Eddie seems to think so too. "Well, first I had to go get my cab from the lot in Queens, then I had to come back to get you all from the apartment, then we went to Manhattan in heavy traffic, and now I've taken you out to JFK. That's a lot of driving and this city is expensive. Now I didn't turn on my meter, but how much do you think it costs?"

"You could literally say any amount and I wouldn't question you."

"Guess. It'll be funny for me."

"Well I live to serve. Two thousand? Three?"

"Oh my god. It's two-fifty."

Richie moves to the backseat, swipes his card, and types in his PIN. He thinks the act should make him feel something, but it doesn't. 

"Ok," Richie says. "Uh, thanks for everything, I guess."

"Wait."

Eddie scrawls something on a napkin and hands it to Richie through the money slot. It's his phone number. Richie can't help but grin.

"How about you text me? Can we leave it at that?"

"Text you? Does that phone even get texts?"

"Shut up, jerk." Eddie smiles. Richie smiles. 

And then Richie leaves. 

  
  


Stan is waiting for him right outside of TSA, but they don't say anything. Whatever they have to say is too emotionally charged to be said in public. Richie can't shake the feeling that Stan is furious at him. Richie has his hoodie up and cinched and his sunglasses still on, but even so, a few people give him lingering stares, trying to figure him out. He follows Stan to his car with his eyes on the ground. 

As soon as they get in the car, Stan's reserved demeanor crumbles. He pulls Richie into his arms and holds him tighter than Richie has ever been held. 

"I was so scared," Stan whispers.

"I'm sorry," Richie says. And he is. 

"You never apologize."

"I've matured," he say.  _ I'm not a four year old,  _ he means.

"You can never leave like that again. Not without telling us. Not without checking in. We came so close to calling the police."

"Why?"

"You know why." A pause. "I had a panic attack last night."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we couldn't get a hold of you and I kept getting more scared and scared and I was picturing all the terrible things that could have happened and then it all just built up. Mike made me take a Xanax. I really thought that you were going to do something irreversibly stupid."

"I had a panic attack this morning."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought I'd done something irreversibly stupid."

They both laugh. They probably shouldn't, but they can't help it. Stan finally lets go of Richie. He stares in his eyes for a few seconds, as if checking his pupils, but he doesn't accuse him of being high again.

"So, the cab driver," Stan says. It isn't a question. It's a judgement. 

“I like him, Stan."

“What do you mean, you  _ like _ him?”

“I mean that I like him.”

Stan lets out a heavy breath. "Let's just get you back to Bill and Audra's tonight. Mike and I are going to spend the night again. We all want to be with you after what happened."

"You mean you all want to babysit me."

"We're scared."

"You keep saying that."

“We thought you killed yourself.”

“Well, you were wrong and for that I forgive you.”

"What did you expect us to think after the last time?"

"What last time?"

“The pills, Richie.”

“I told you that was an accident.”

“You took half a bottle of sleeping pills.”

“I couldn’t sleep!”

“You called me and told me goodbye.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“Of course you wouldn't, you were barely conscious.”

“Well I wasn’t trying to do anything but go to sleep. And besides, this isn’t the same."

"Let's not have a fight. We can figure everything out in the morning."

"Fine."

 

Richie spends the night with his friends and lets them coddle him and stays within in their sight the whole time. He lets Mike cook him his favorite meal for dinner. He lets Audra choose a movie to watch. He lets Bill pretend this whole thing hasn't affected him the way they all know it has. They don't talk about what happens next. They don't talk about the last messages they sent or why Stan didn't send one at all. They don't ask about why he left or what he was doing. Richie doesn't tell them about Bev and Ben. He doesn't tell them about Eddie. They pretend that everything is normal; they pretend that everything is fine. 

But they all know that it isn't. There is something broken between all of them now. Something completely irreversible. It doesn't feel the same. Or maybe it's worse. Maybe it is exactly the same. No photos of him at the club have surfaced. He's still in the closet. He's back in the city he's grown to loathe. And all he can think about is what Eddie told him last night. 

_ Maybe it's time you made a change in your life.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super huge thanks to everyone who kudos'd, commented, and bookmarked! It means a lot to get feedback <3


	3. The Thing About Change

#  The Thing About Change

Change isn’t linear. It loops and divots and twists and dips.

At least that’s what the book Richie bought says. 

It's been one month since New York and Richie is intent on making a change. Well, he's starting to. He bought the book because he refuses to admit that Stan was right all the times he suggested therapy. He bought the book because going to a therapist would feel like defeat. He bought the book because the cover says it’s just as good as therapy with only half the hassle. He threw the book out the window of a moving car because it turns out that working on your problems is actually very frustrating. He made the driver turn around so he could retrieve the book because he is going to be better. 

It’s a workbook full of pages that he’s supposed to fill with his problems. He does just that. He writes it all with a strawberry-scented glitter pen because that in and of itself is therapy for him. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then this particular pen must be mightier than ingrained notions of toxic masculinity. Or something like that, anyway. It’s a term Audra uses a lot, he’s not exactly sure of the weight of it. But whether the pen is actually helping him with that or not, it gives his shitty feelings a little sparkle and that’s enough. 

And so now he sits in Bill and Audra’s living room, staring at his open book. He’s staying at their place for the time being. For the past month, he’s been bouncing between his friends’ houses and sleeping in their guest rooms. His friends don’t want him to be alone. And, well, he doesn’t want to be alone either. They all tiptoe around him. They make sure he wakes up at a reasonable time. They make sure eats three meals a day. They make sure he goes to bed at a reasonable time. And at least once a week they all eat dinner together, like a strange hodgepodge family. They try to make it seem like it’s not all because of him. They try to act normal. Mike and Audra are doing a good job. Bill and Stan are not. He sees the way they look at him. He sees the concern. He sees the pity. 

Bill goes as far as telling Richie that they’re all uncomfortable leaving him alone during the day. But they all have to work. Meanwhile, Richie hasn’t gotten so much as an offer. The hills have eyes, and none more so than Hollywood Hills. Everyone in the business seems to know that he’s falling apart. He might as well have a big stamp across his forehead that says, _UNHIREABLE._ He’s paranoid that they all know about his trip, but really he knows that he’s been erratic for years now. Either way, it leaves his days empty. Well, almost empty.

He has Eddie. 

He hasn't told his friends about him. Apart from the conversation he had with Stan in the car, they haven't talked about him at all. No one even knows his name. They just know that Richie slept with a cab driver in New York and they think they know that it's all in the past. It very much isn't. A day hasn’t gone by without Richie and Eddie texting each other or talking on the phone. Hell, they’ve hardly gone a couple hours without contact. 

Eddie is the only one who knows he has the book. Eddie is the only one who wouldn’t pity him for having it.

But he can’t talk to Eddie right now. It’s four thirty on a Wednesday and that means Eddie is tutoring. Which leaves Richie plenty of time to do some of his own studying. The page he’s on now is titled,  _ Half-Smile and Willing Hands.  _ It’s supposed to teach him how to tolerate distress. It’s also sort of ridiculous. Apparently, emotions are partially controlled by facial expressions and body language, therefore by mimicking serenity, your body will be encouraged to feel it. 

He thinks Stan would probably laugh at the idea, but the book tells him that such a thought is mind reading, and such assumptions are detrimental. 

Richie decides the half-smile is worth a shot. He stands up, holds his arms out with his fingers splayed and his palms outward. He forces a smile. He stares at Bill’s five Oscars. They stare back with their shiny eyeless faces. He smiles wider. 

And that's when Audra walks through the front door.

"Uh, Richie? What's going on there, bud?"

Richie jolts. He's not exactly caught red-handed, but he is caught willing-handed, which might be worse. He turns to Audra, still grinning, and proclaims, "I'm not depressed!"

"What?" Audra drops her keys and purse on the kitchen counter and walks over to Richie.

Richie grabs his book and hides it under one of the pillows.

"So, if you want to hide something," Audra says, "I generally recommend not doing it while the person you want to hide it from is watching."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not hiding anything. Why are you home early? You shouldn't be here right now."

"I filmed my scene quicker than we thought and you just put something under my throw pillow. I want to know what it is."

"You know, I've always wondered why they're called throw pillows. It just feels like an open invitation to toss them around. Do you know why they call them throw pillows, Audra?"

"You can't redirect my attention, Richie. What's under the pillow?"

Richie sighs and lifts the pillow. Audra picks up the book. She reads the front cover.

"DBT? What's that?"

"It's stupid."

"Is this a therapy workbook?"

Richie bites the inside of his cheek. "Yeah."

"Why are there tire marks across the cover?"

"Long story."

And then Audra is hugging him. "I'm so proud of you," she says.

"Proud?"

"Of course I am."

She lets go of him.

"Would you mind not telling anyone?” Richie asks. “It's not that I'm ashamed... I just..."

"It's ok. I can keep a secret. I just hope you know that you can come to any of us with things like this. Everyone else would be proud too."

"I know." Richie doesn’t tell her that that’s the problem. He doesn’t want his friends to have to be proud of him. He doesn’t want his friends to have to act like his parents. 

He shuffles off to the guest room and puts his book up. When he comes back, Audra has thrown her shoes off and turned the TV on. A Lincoln commercial featuring Matthew McConaughey is playing.

"Gross," Richie says. "These ads are fucking ridiculous. No self-respecting Oscar winner should be in car commercials."

Audra rolls her eyes. "Did you hear how much Mathew's being paid? It might make you change your mind."

They have conversations like this a lot. Richie treasures them. He joins Audra on the couch.

"Bill's going to have a late night, I think," she says as the conversation rolls on. "He's still getting used to directing. He's good, but it's definitely a learning curve for him."

"How's Tom?" 

Tom, of course, is the actor who was hired after Richie was thrown off the movie. Tom is younger than Richie. Tom is shinier than Richie. Tom has already been in two blockbuster superhero movies that have made him richer than Richie. Tom is Hollywood's newest darling. Everyone loves Tom.

"Don't do this to yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

"Is he better than me?"

"Richie."

"You're right." As per his book's advice, he's going to accept his situation, because rejecting reality leads to pain and pain leads to misery. Or something like that, anyway. The point is that he doesn’t have the job and Tom does. And he accepts this. "But is he better than me?" Whoops.

"Tom is a good actor. You're a good actor."

"Do you think this role is going to get him nominated?"

"I don't know, Richie. Maybe."

Richie groans. He tries smiling again.

"Don't do that, it's creepy."

"My book told me to do it. It's distress tolerance. I can't be upset if I'm smiling."

"That's disconcerting. But if it helps, smile all you need.”

“Does Tom look creepy when he smiles?"

Audra groans. “Oh my God. It doesn't matter. You know, Richie, you don't have to put a movie out every year. And besides, Tom being a good actor doesn't mean you're a bad one."

"Right. Yeah. Got it."

"Do you?"

"I do. I totally do. Completely."

"Yeah?"

"I am accepting reality."

"That's a strange way to put it."

"The book told me to think of it like that."

"Well, then let me break out the rosé. We can toast to your book."

They do just that. Well, Audra toasts with a glass of water because she has a headache, but Richie doesn't mind being the only one to drink. After a half a glass, he rests his head on Audra's shoulders. She pets his hair.

"It's getting pretty long," she says.

"It doesn't look... I don't know."

"What?"

"It doesn't look feminine, does it?"

"You look like Chris Hemsworth circa 2013. You’re a verifiable hunk.”

"I'm six foot one and weigh a hundred and sixty-five pounds. I don't think anyone would say I look like him. But really, the hair is okay?"

"The hair is very ok. It suits you."

Richie is silent for a minute. He sips his rosé. It's a 2008 Louis Roederer and it cost about six hundred dollars. It tastes just like Pink Moscato. He goes to the fridge and swaps it out for a beer. It’s a craft that tastes like soap. Bill picked it out, the rat bastard. Nevertheless, it gets the job done. 

"Hey, Audra?" Richie says as he returns to the couch. 

"Yes?'

"Would you paint my fingernails?" He's not quite sure why he asks this. Well actually, he's exactly sure. It's the same reason he uses pink ink in his book. He wants to shut up that voice in his head. He wants to be horrifying to men who watch Adam Sandler movies.

Audra seems caught off guard. "Yeah, sure. Of course," she says.

Audra runs off and comes back with a box full of nail polish. She's done her own nails ever since meeting Bill. Bill is a salt of the Earth kind of guy, which is probably what attracted Audra to him in the first place. They live in a town made of plastic and Bill is made of blood and bone. Audra loves it. The public loves it even more. Their house is small, or at least it's built to look small. It's on a hill, so the front looks like a cottage while the back has two stories. It was built in the 40’s for Clark Gable and Carole Lombard as a strange middle ground of Hollywood luxury and cozy modesty. Richie thinks that makes it entirely appropriate for Philbrough.

"I'm assuming you want black," Audra says, picking up a bottle of nail polish.

"Is black a cop-out color?"

"It depends. Why do you want your nails painted?" 

"Because guys shouldn't have their nails painted."

"Uh..."

"I don't want them painted. I want what painting them represents."

"I'm only getting more confused."

"I want to embrace my sexuality."

"You know being attracted to men doesn't mean you have to have painted nails?"

"I know." Richie can't picture either Stan or Mike having painted nails. Sure Stan secretly sneaks off every other Sunday to get his cuticles taken care of, but that’s more of a Stan thing and less of a gay thing. "I just..."

"Want to challenge ingrained notions of toxic masculinity?"

"I knew I heard that from you."

Audra grins. "Ok, then. Nail painting time. If you think black is too safe but you still want something a bit more subdued, may I suggest aubergine?"

"Auber-what?"

"Dark purple." Audra holds up a bottle of Louboutin polish. She may paint her own nails now, but she sure as hell still uses designer polish. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah."

As Audra paints his nails, Richie tries to look at his hands as objectively as possible. They’re nice hands. Pale hands. Hands with long fingers. And now, they are hands with painted nails. One thing is certain, they are not his father's hands.

Just as Audra finishes, Richie's phone dings from across the room.

"Your nails are wet and I'm not redoing them. Let me bring you your phone."

"Oh no, Audra, it's fine, really."

It's too late. Audra picks his phone up and blushes bright red. She hands Richie his phone.

_ Eddie. 6:00 p.m.  _

_ I just got home and I'm horny. Wanna help out? _

“So, uh, who’s Eddie?”

  
  


It’s been two months since New York and Richie can’t stop talking about Eddie. Since Audra found out, Richie's let the cat out of the bag. Or more accurately, he’s thrown the cat out of the bag and shot it into the sky. He talks about Eddie’s eyes when he and Mike drive around town. He talks about Eddie’s voice when he and Bill share a beer. He talks about Eddie’s ass when he and Audra loaf around in front of the TV. Stan, however, does not want to hear about Eddie. Well, really none of them do. They all seem to agree that it’s a bad idea, but at least the others indulge him. Stan was never very inclined to humor Richie, though. Richie says that Stan should because he’s been seeing Eddie for a whole sixth of a year now. Stan says that in order for two people to be seeing each other, you have to actually see each other. It’s a fair point. 

He and Eddie haven’t labeled what they’re doing, of course. Well, that’s not true. It’s something like this: Richie feels safe talking to Eddie; Eddie feels safe talking to Richie. They are on other sides of the country and somehow incredibly close. Eddie says that’s because it's easier to talk to strangers. He insists that that's what they still are, but their conversations don’t feel that way to Richie. Still, they aren’t dating. As much as the word ‘boyfriend’ tickles Richie’s tongue every time he talks about Eddie, he knows it would be a lie. Eddie has outright talked about sleeping with other men. Though to be fair, that talk has been tapering off as the weeks march on. 

Richie supposes that makes them happy-sad stranger-lovers; two little paradox people. They talk whenever either of them is bored or sad or introspective or horny. They flirt and sext and share the most meaningful parts of themselves. 

Richie lies on his bed (or rather, Stan and Mike’s guest room bed) with his phone pressed against his face. He’s been talking with Eddie for an hour already and the screen is warm, almost hot against his cheek. Richie doesn’t mind. It’s nine o’clock in LA and eleven o’clock in New York. It’s Thursday night, which is now Richie’s favorite night. Eddie doesn’t have class on Friday, and doesn’t have to be at work until nine. So naturally, it’s when they get to talk the longest. Oftentimes, the conversation goes on all through the night and Richie will wake up to find that neither of them remembered to hang up. He likes it this way.

“I feel like I’m rotting away without work,” Richie tells Eddie. 

“Have you asked around? Gone on auditions, or whatever?”

“Actors don’t ask around. Not ones as famous as me, anyway. Sometimes I’ll be invited to do a read but I haven’t gone on an actual audition since I was fifteen. Nowadays, people have to come to me.”

“Swanky. I wish it were that way for me too. The job market isn't exactly pretty.”

“Once you graduate, everyone’s going to want you.”

Eddie laughs. “I wish.”

“Seriously! You’re amazing. You’re getting your Bachelor’s and your Master’s at the same time. I didn’t even know you could do that.”

“Well it’s a lot of work, but this way it’s cheaper and quicker to get both degrees. I just wish I actually knew what I wanted to do with them.”

“Do you know what I would give to be in that situation? My career was decided for me when I was a kid. You’re fucking lucky.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything.

“Crap. That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“A little.”

“Hold on, let me try again. I just did a page on interpersonal relationships this morning.” Richie puts the phone down and picks his book up. He flips to the latest dog-eared page and scans the text. “Ok. Eddie, I hear you and understand what is making you upset. Me diminishing that not only does not help you but also redirects the conversation to me and my problems at a time when I should be helping you with yours.”

“Once more, with feeling.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie laughs. “Really it is.”

“But seriously, I know you’re going to find a great career. It’d take a fool not to see how hard you work.”

“Thanks.”

The line is silent again, but it’s a pleasant sort of silence. Intimate. 

Finally, Eddie asks, “If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?”

“Nobody’s ever asked me that question before.”

“Really?”

“Really. I've just always been an actor. Stan was pushing me to go to college for awhile, but I don’t even have a high school diploma.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Richie, it isn't. You didn't graduate high school because you had a full time job before you had any right to. It isn't your fault."

"It was my choice to drop out. I wanted to focus on acting full time."

"Do you regret it?"

"I don't know."

The line sits quiet again. Alive and dead. Vegetative. 

“You know, I finally saw one of your movies last night," Eddie says.

“Oh.” Richie isn’t sure how he should feel. He’s told Eddie quite a lot about the roles he’s played in the past, but Eddie still hasn’t actually seen him in any of them. Well, until now. 

“It was kind of surreal. I mean I knew you were a big shot actor, but actually seeing you on screen looking all serious with professional lighting and effects and the whole Hollywood shebang… it was weird.”

“Weird how? What movie did you watch?”

_ “The Black Rapids.  _ Bev said it’s your best. We watched it at Ben’s house. He has a TV, and a pretty big one too.”

“I got an Oscar for that role.”

“I know. You remind me of that at least once a week.” Eddie laughs. 

“Well I did!” Richie’s laughing too. He’s never laughed at stuff like this before. “Did you like the movie?”

“I did. You're good at what you do."

"Thanks."

"You were really hot, too."

"Well, you can thank all the people who made that happen," Richie laughs.

"What do you mean?"

“I wasn't supposed to be an attractive person. I was a funny looking kid and I should’ve been a funny looking adult.”  
“Well you’re a very attractive adult.”  
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t be.”

“Yeah, but you are.”

“Yeah, but I wish I weren’t.”

“Why?”

“I guess I just feel a disconnect between my body and my brain. I don't look the way I should. I'm fake."

"You aren't fake." 

“My nose is fake.”

“Huh.”

“My eyes, my teeth, all of it. Richard Tozier is completely renovated.”

“I’ve never heard you call yourself Richard before. Richard  _ Toe-zhee-ay.  _ Sounds important.”

“Sounds fake. My family pronounces it  _ Toe-zhure.  _ My manager made me change it. She made me change a lot of things. Hey, want to hear something funny?"

"What?"

"A few years ago, she had me take out an insurance policy on my nose.”

“Your nose?”

“Not long after the nose job, my coke habit became my coke dependency. If my nasal bridge collapsed, I'd be out of work for a long time to get it reconstructed. My face is my money. Now, if I’m ever hard up for cash, I can always bash my nose in and get thirty million dollars.”

“Thirty million just for your nose?”

“I told you I make about twenty per movie. Mrs. Denninger figured I’d be missing out on at least two projects, so it’s actually a little low.”

“Jesus. When did you quit coke?" Eddie clears his throat. "I mean, you did quit, didn't you?"

“I quit three years ago this September, been sober ever since. I was lucky. The public never found out. Not really. There were rumors. Some gossip rag speculation, but none of them had proof.”

"I'm just glad you were able to stop."

"I'm just glad my nose is intact with how much I was doing," Richie laughs. It isn't funny this time, though. "But it was hard to quit. Really hard. It wasn't just blow, either. It wouldn't have been all that bad on its own, but I combined it with all sorts of shit. Amphetamines, Molly, GHB, lots of Ketamine. Coke was my favorite though. Couldn’t get through a day of work without a few bumps.” He does not mention the sleeping pills. 

“Richie, that’s awful.”

“Yeah? You should have seen me then. People I worked with were making bets on how long I’d live. Twenty-three was a pretty popular guess. They said I was going to be the new River Phoenix. If you think the policy on my nose was a lot, you don’t even want to know how much the studios took out in case I died during filming. It was in the realm of hundreds of millions, whatever the projected box office was. Without me, the movies would either be scrapped or they’d have to double their budget to recast and reshoot. It’s that way for a lot of actors, whether they drug or drink or do nothing at all.”

“I’m so sorry.”

"Yeah.”

“It's amazing that you've stopped.”

“Is it?”

“It really is.”

“What about you, Eddie Spaghetti? You ever indulge in something a little more than medicinal?”

“I, uh, I have a weird relationship with drugs. Medicine as a whole, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mom fed me sugar pills my entire childhood.”

“Holy shit.”

"She didn't just control what I watched on TV, she controlled everything. Her making me believe I was sick was just a part of that. She wanted nothing less than total dependency. Sometimes she made me sick for real. If I was vying for independence, she’d slip ipecac in my soup. I spent my childhood in and out of hospitals. Every time I was there, I was scared I wouldn't come home. I was scared that I would die just like my dad did.”

Richie doesn’t know what to say, but it’s okay. They share this type of heavy conversation a lot. It’s a war story trade off of sorts. Sometimes they’re the same.  _ My dad’s dead; your dad’s dead.  _ Sometimes they’re opposites.  _ I spent my childhood in the spotlight; you spent yours locked inside your house.  _ And sometimes they’re unrelated.  _ My first agent told me she was attracted to me when I was thirteen; you were so small when you were born the doctor told your parents you wouldn’t survive.  _

It just so happens that the latest one is,  _ I abused drugs; your mother used drugs to abuse you.  _

There’s no winning these exchanges. It isn't a vying for pity. It’s a purge. 

“Hey, Eds?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you talk to me?”

Eddie doesn’t ask him what he means, he just starts talking about everything and nothing. What he ate for lunch today, what Bev wore last week, a joke Ben made at dinner.

Richie puts his phone on speaker. He tucks it under his pillow and presses his ear against it. Eddie’s voice is too muffled for anyone else to hear. Richie likes it this way, secret and private, and vibratory as the sound travels through the pillow. This way he doesn’t just hear Eddie’s voice; he feels it.

Richie isn’t sure what he and Eddie are, but he knows that it’s either love or vivisection. 

  
  


It's been three months since New York and Richie's decided that he's going to learn how to take care of himself. And well, sometimes the easiest way to learn how to take care of oneself is by learning how to take care of others. He's still bouncing between his friends' houses with no end in sight, but this week it's just him and Bill in the bungalow. The movie is officially in post and Audra is visiting her parents in Vermont. 

“It’s just you and me, Big Bill!” Richie accidentally walked in on Bill changing yesterday and now he can confirm that the nickname is quite accurate. 

“Stop calling me that. It’s weird now.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

Bill's laugh is a powerful thing. A safe thing. A comfort. Richie can’t help but laugh too. Things are starting to feel normal again, although Richie isn’t quite sure what normal means between the two of them. He doesn’t want to overthink it; he doesn’t want to jinx it. 

“Grab us a couple beers from the fridge,” Bill says. “Get the nice stuff. Sixpoint Resin and we can order out. Tonight feels like a pizza and beer night. We can play a few rounds of Scrabble too.” Bill Denbrough is the one man in Hollywood who finds Scrabble entertaining, God bless him. “Besides, I have news to share.”

“News?" Richie asks. "Good or bad?” 

“Good. Very good, actually.” 

Work. It’s got to be an offer. It just has to be. Maybe Bill’s been keeping people away from Richie because he has something in mind for him. And sure, Richie still hasn’t forgiven Bill for not fighting to keep him on the last project, but he’s decided that he will work with him again after all. The thing is, Richie  _ likes _ working with Bill. His stuff isn’t just dry drama or suspense, there’s always an undertone of humor that gives it all a feeling of authenticity. 

“But let’s just hang out first, Bill says. "It’ll be like old times." Old times. Before the kiss, before the paps, before the tweet, before the rejected advance. The times Before.

“Can’t go back, Big Bill. There are no more old times, just new ones.”

“Yeah, but they were good times all around, right?”

“Sure. Good times.” Richie clears his throat. “But we aren’t getting pizza.”

“No?”

“I’m going to take care of you."

"By taking care, you mean what exactly?"

"I'm cooking for you.”

Bill laughs again. “Have you ever cooked before?”

“Yes.” No. “Look, I’m trying to better myself, alright? I can’t have you all babying me for the rest of my life.”

“We aren’t babying you.” Bill’s eyes say different. “But I’m all for it, Richie. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry – I think it’ll be good for you to know to do it by yourself. Shit, I was doing all that stuff by sixth grade.”

Richie frowns. He thinks about telling Bill that this kind of comparison upsets him, but he decides not to. 

“So, what are you going to make?” Bill asks. 

“That's for me to know and you to find out." It's Kraft Mac & Cheese, straight from the box. Mike promised him it would be easy. 

“Should I be nervous?"

"No. Now go into the living room and turn on the TV or read a book or polish your awards, whatever you like to do in your spare time. I’m going to make you the best dinner you've ever had.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Try not to burn my house down. I think Audra would be upset if she came home to a pile of ash.”

“Ow. Did you hear that? It was the sound of my heart breaking.”

“Really, please be careful. Our burners are gas and I don’t want to die."

“I know how to use a stove.” Richie does not know how to use a stove. “I have gas burners too.” He’s never actually turned them on. 

"Whatever you do just make sure you turn them off when you’re finished.”

“I’m not going to light your house on fire.”

“I’m talking about Carbon Monoxide.”

“Ok! Got it! Now vamoose.”

Bill leaves the kitchen with his hands up in surrender.

Richie stares down the stove for a few minutes. He studies it with pointed intensity. Then he grabs a pot from the cabinets, fills it all the way up to the brim with water, empties the powdered cheese packet into it, and puts it on the stove top. He turns the heat all the way up, puts a lid on the pot, and sits on the counter. He watches the pot for a good fifteen seconds or so before he gets bored and takes his phone out. There's a text from Eddie.

_ Eddie. 8:38 p.m. _

_ I'm boooooooored _

Richie grins and texts back, 'You're cuuuuuute. I love imagining you on that stupid little flip phone of yours punching every button until it hits the right letter. You must really be devoted to texting me'

_ Can I admit something? _

'What?'

_ I bought a new phone the day after you left. _

'For me, Eds?? Be still my beating heart'

_ Beep beep _

'asdfghjkoiuytghjm'

_?? _

'Exactly.'

_ You're lucky you're cute _

'Not as cute as you'

_ Comparative attractiveness is toxic. One person's qualities do not negate another's. In other words, we can both be cute. _

'Thank you, Professor Kaspbrak.'

_ asdfyujiuytgyhiuyjfg _

'Look at you catching on'

_ Bleh  _

'Bleh yourself. What type of phone did you get?'

_ iPhone something or other. 4 maybe? _

'You're kidding.'

_ What? _

'Where did you buy a new iPhone 4? Those came out like eight years ago'

_ Ok so maybe it isn't new new, but it was cheap _

'I would've bought you a phone'

_ Don't _

'What?'

_ Say stuff like that. It makes me feel gross. _

'How does it make you feel gross?'

_ It just does _

_ I don't want to be your sugar baby _

'Wtf are you talking about? I have money, you don't. What would be so wrong with me buying you a phone?'

_ A week after you came to New York, you sent Bev twenty pairs of Ray-Bans _

_ That’s $3000 worth _

_ It’s more than our rent. By a lot.  _

'Are you really mad about that?'

'Bev told me she loved them'

_ I'm not mad. _

_ I just don't want your money. _

'Fine. Sorry for offering.'

'You should've told me you got a new phone earlier tho. We can finally FaceTime'

'I'm starting to forget just how cute your face is'

'Eds?'

_ Do we have to? _

_ I like how we talk now _

'But wouldn't it be more fun to talk face to face'

'?????'

'Eddie?'

Richie stares at his phone. Eddie isn't answering. He doesn't have to. Richie knows that Eddie wants to keep him at an arm's length. Richie also knows that he doesn't want to be kept at an arm's length. He wants to look at Eddie and he wants to touch Eddie and he wants to just simply  _ be _ with Eddie. Eddie wants to be strangers. 

The pot boils over. Orange-tinged water bubbles through the seam of the lid and splats onto the burner with a sizzle.

Richie curses under his breath and pulls the pot off the stove. His sleeve grazes the flame and catches on fire. He drops the pot on the counter and the lid crashes to the floor. Richie sticks his arm under the faucet and manages to put out the fire before the smoke detector can get a whiff.

"Richie, you cool in there?" Bill calls.

"As a cucumber!"

"I heard something fall."

"It's all fine!"

Bill comes into the kitchen anyway. He stares at the lid on the floor and the full pot on the counter and Richie's singed cuff.

"So I'm going to order a pizza," Bill says.

"Probably for the best."

Bill walks over to the pot and looks in. "But good try making… boiling cheese water?"

"Thanks."

 

An hour later, they're on the back porch with pizza and beer keeping them good company. Orange arc-sodium light dances on the beer bottles and lenses of Bill's reading glasses. The air is warm. The air is familiar. The air is alive. Orange on blue. Forgotten comforts. 

Bill's porch, and really his house as a whole, is strangely private. Richie doesn't understand it. His own house has a gate in front of it and still he's constantly harassed by people seeking him out. Sometimes they’re fans, sometimes they’re paps. It doesn't really make a difference at this point. He hasn't so much as gone inside his place since coming home. He doesn't give half a shit about the things he owns because he can buy whatever he wants. And right now he just wants privacy. Bill inexplicably has it. He doesn’t have nearly as much face recognition, but he isn’t exactly invisible either. The pizza delivery driver asked Bill for an autograph and a picture. Bill gave it to him happily. Richie hid behind a ficus.

“I’ve missed you, Richie," Bill says as he cracks open a second beer. Richie's still on his first, but he's feeling good. Sixpoint Resin is deceptively strong stuff. 

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, but I think you know.”

Richie shrugs. It feels like the kind of conversation suited for weed rather than beer, but it’s been a good long while since they smoked with each other. Weed is a tricky thing for Richie and Audra. Richie is able to smoke occasionally; Audra not at all. Bill doesn't keep it in the house out of respect for her, but Richie does miss the ease it brought between him and his friend.

“I don’t feel you, Big Bill.”

Bill takes a sip of his beer. "You know, I've been getting to thinking lately."

"Oh, you don't want to do that. You might hurt yourself."

Bill laughs. "I'm being serious, though. Life is just one big, incredibly complex, interwoven tapestry of meaning and memory and experience and chemical."

"Sounds pretentious."

"Fuck off."

This time they both laugh. 

"When did we get so…" Bill trails off. It isn't like him. Bill has a slow, careful way of speaking. It's a holdover from his days in speech therapy. Everything he says is measured and calculated. Each word is carefully picked, considered, and only then delivered. 

"So what?"

"Far apart."

"We aren't far apart, Billy. We're right next to each other," Richie says, even though he knows just how incongruent physical and emotional distances truly are. Eddie's taught him that much. 

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

The silence that follows is not like the silence that sometimes comes on the phone with Eddie. This silence is itchy. Strained. It’s the kind of silence Eddie’s left him with now.

"Hey, Bill?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I get some advice?"

"You're asking someone for advice? Since when?" Richie feels like Bill might laugh again. Bill doesn't.

"Since now. Eddie's acting weird."

"Richie…" There he goes, trailing off again.

"What?" Richie knows already. He wants Bill to say it.

"We're scared about how close you two seem to be getting. You text him all the time."

"I like him."

"How much have you told him about you?"

"Hardly anything." Everything.

"That's not the truth. It's a dangerous game you're playing. Everything you've told him, every sadness, every sext, every secret… all he has to do is screenshot what you've sent him or record your calls and he can ruin your life."

"He's not going to do that."

"You don't know that."

"I would be able to tell by now."

"What if he's just playing the long con? What if he's spending all this time talking to you just to get everything on you that he can possibly get? What if he's just waiting for the right time to turn around and blackmail you?"

Richie downs the rest of his beer. "He wouldn't take my money if I threw it at him. You're wrong, Bill."

"I hope I am." Bill finishes his beer too. Richie takes a second; Bill reaches for a glass of water. "Audra says we have to trust you to make decisions for yourself."

"Your wife is smarter than you."

"I know." Bill laughs. 

"Hey, Bill?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn't you fight for me? I could've done the project. You know I could've."

"I know, but it wouldn't have been good for you."

"You don't know what's good for me."

"I know what's bad for you."

"Semantics, semantics."

“Leave it be, Richie.”

“Sure, I’ll leave it be. Why not? Besides it seems like Tom was really a better fit.”

"Tom's a good actor, but he isn't my friend."

"You and I are friends," Richie says. His voice is tight in the back of his throat.

"Why are you saying it like that? Of course we’re friends. When you ran off, I told you you were like a brother to me. I hope you know I meant it."

"I made a pass at you." The words come out before Richie can stop them. "Why haven't we ever talked about it?"

Bill takes a moment to consider his words. "I forgot about it," is what he finally comes up with.

"Bullshit."

"Ayuh," Bill says in that stupid Maine way of his. "I guess I just didn't know what to say. It wasn't just because I'm not attracted to men. I mean you were nineteen. You were practically still a kid. I'm seven years older than you, I know it doesn't always feel that way, but it's a fact."

"Your wife is five years older than you."

"That's different. I was in my late twenties when I met her. I was done maturing."

"Why about me? Am I ever going to get to mature? You said I was practically a kid when I was nineteen. What about now? I never got to be a kid, but I never had to be an adult. What does the make me? What does it mean for my future?"

"That's up to you, Richie." Bill's starting to sound a whole lot like Richie's book. Richie’s not quite sure what to make of that. 

"You said you loved me. That night, after the Vanity Fair party, it's what you whispered in my ear. You were drunk and you kissed me and you told me you loved me and I thought that it meant that you did."

"God, I’m s-sorry. If I’d known… I don’t know. I’m just sorry. But I need you to know that I do love you. You're my best friend."

"Best friend?"

Bill laughs and suddenly things don't hurt so bad anymore. "You were the best man at my wedding. Of course you're my best friend."

"Why?”

“Because you’re you.”

“Yeah? And who’s that? I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t think I’ve ever known, so will you just tell me, please? Who am I?”

"I can't answer that for you." An owl hoots somewhere far off. "Look at the sky, Richie." Richie does. It's a deep midnight metropolitan blue made only more brilliant by the orange lights. The night is cloudless, but there are no stars to be seen. They're close enough to the heart of L.A. for the sky to be tainted by light pollution, but they're far enough away to hear the low rumbling sounds of nighttime. "What do you think of the stars?"

"We're in Hollywood, Bill. There aren't any stars here. That's the great irony of it all, ain't it?"

"Just look at the sky, Richie. Humor me.”

“Fine. Tell me about the sky.”

“Well, people have been looking up there for hundred of thousands of years. We've been trying to make sense of what's up there for just as long. Some people think they've figured it all out. Some people don't think about it at all. It's the big human mystery, though. What lies beyond. What it all means. Why any of us are even here.

"People say that there is something greater than all of us written up there in the great unknown. Whether it's God or a great series of cosmic coincidences, people like to believe in predestination. At the beginning of time, we looked to the stars and the stars made us scared. So we spent all of human history trying to turn them into a comfort. But what about now? In the middle ages, they thought stars were chinks in the floor of heaven. Now we know they're just big balls of flaming gas. And knowing that makes people scared of them again. We're scared that all that meaning we came up with is nothing after all. So here we all are again, scrambling to find something new in the stars or drowning them out with our city lights so we don’t have to think about it.”

“Gee, Bill. Didn’t know you thought the stars were so poetic.”

Bill snorts. "There isn't poetry in the stars, Richie. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. The poetry, that's all on us. The stars are simply there, the meaning is whatever we say it is. You and I, there’s no meaning for us either. So we’ve got to create our own. What I’m trying to say is that I can’t tell you who you are. You have to figure that out for yourself."

This all makes Richie very uncomfortable. The empty night sky mocks him. He laughs because he does not know how to cope with such things. 

"Is that your news, Bill? You doing a big sci-fi movie next? This your script? You offering me a role?” Please. 

"I'm taking some time off, as a matter of fact."

"Are you sick? Is that what's going on?"

Bill waves him off. "Can't a man just be introspective?"

"Just tell me the news."

Bill reaches into his pocket and hands Richie a piece of paper. Richie holds it up to the light.

"Is this…?"

"It's an ultrasound."

"A… Audra is… oh my God.”

"I'm going to be a dad." Bill's smile glistens in the orange light. 

"That's your kid?"

"That's my kid!"

Richie lets the news sink in. He looks at the picture of what will soon be Baby Philbrough. A fetus. A reason for introspection. A meaning in the cosmos. 

“I’m so happy for you two,” Richie says. “How far along is she?”

“Fifteen weeks. People are supposed to keep it to themselves for a little bit, just to make sure it’s… well you know. And there have been a few times for us before where it didn’t work out. We were beginning to be scared that it wouldn’t happen. But here we are. Audra’s made it through the first trimester and then some with no problems. The doctor says we're in the clear to spread the news. You’re the first one we’ve told.”

“And you didn’t want to do it at as a couple?”

“She wanted me to be the one to tell you. And I’ve, uh, g-got to tell you something else. She thought it would be best for you to hear it from me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Audra isn’t just up visiting her parents. She’s looking at houses.”

“Houses?”

“We’re going to move to Vermont.”

“Oh.”

“It’s n-not going to be forever, we’ll still keep our house here and we’ll come back all the time. It’s just…”

“You don’t want to bring up a kid in the limelight.”

“Yeah.”

“I get it. Kids like that turn out weird and spoiled and full of a sinking feeling of emptiness and sadness and they can never find happiness or meaning or–"

“Richie, stop. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

“No, it’s… I hear Vermont is a lovely place. Great to raise children in. Very nice and quiet and I’m sure there’s great private schools and nature trails and all sorts of things that can give someone a stellar childhood. It's all good. It's all great. Everything is fine. I have four friends in the world and two of them are moving all the way to the other end of the country to get away from me." It isn't fair to Bill. This is his big news. This is his moment. And now Richie's stolen it. He's doing everything his book says not to do and he doesn't know how to stop. He's crying before he realizes it. "Fucking hell. I'm sorry, Bill."

Bill stands up and hugs Richie. It's not a thing they do, not since that night in 2012. Richie buries his face in Bill’s shoulder.

"I love you, R-Richie, I'm n-never going to st-stop b-b-being your friend." It all comes out in a quick, sputtering burst. "You know that, r-right?"

"I know." He doesn't. "I'm sorry for what I said. I'm really happy for you, I am. You're going to make an excellent father. Kids need good fathers."

Bill lets go of him and smiles. "You really think I'll be a good dad?"

"You'll be a great one."

They spend the rest of the night playing game after game of Scrabble. Bill creams Richie every time. 

And it’s all fine. 

  
  


It's been four months since New York and today is the first day of fall. It doesn't feel like it, but then again it never does in L.A. The Santa Ana winds are pulling through hot, heavy, and dry. They leave the air strange and wicked. Richie hasn't been going outside much, so it doesn't really matter. He's back at Stan and Mike's and will probably be there for awhile. At this point, he doesn't think he'll ever go back home. He doesn't think he can handle it. No one has said anything, but Richie knows that there's only so long they can tolerate him in their houses. He just hopes the limit isn't coming any time soon.

Bill and Audra's house search in Vermont is going well. Actually, it  _ went  _ well. They pulled the trigger on a home a few miles outside of Montpelier two days. It's far too modest for them, which is exactly why they're buying it. The move won't be official until after the premiere of the movie, but Audra has been spending more and more time out of L.A. getting things ready and staying with her parents. It's good for the baby. That's what Richie keeps reminding himself. He misses her. A lot. Soon she really will be gone and Bill will be too. But it's okay. It's all okay.

Their weekly dinners have dwindled to bi-weekly dinners and soon enough they'll be once a month, then a handful times a year, then holidays, then nothing at all. Nothing lasts. Not for Richie.

But right now, they're all gathered round in Mike and Stan's beautiful dining room, at their beautiful table, with a beautiful meal on their beautiful tableware. Richie helped Mike in the kitchen. He's improved his skills a lot in the last month, but then again, there really was nowhere to go but up. He finally learned to drive and bought a car. He doesn't use it very often; he doesn't have all that many places to go.

Richie focuses on the taste of the food. He focuses on the blue wallpaper. He focuses on the smell of Audra's perfume. It's self-soothing, that's what his book calls it anyway. To put it simply, he’s concentrating on pleasant senses. God knows there are plenty of those in the Hanlon-Uris household.

Audra's showing now. It's almost as though the baby was waiting for the news to be announced. They haven't made a release yet, but the world is speculating. Audra made the cover of  _ Ok!, Star,  _ and  _ People _ this week with all sorts of pap photos of her bump. The studio that produced Bill's movie says it's 'the best damn marketing scheme we've ever seen.' Audra scoffed at that, but no one can deny that it's going to give them a big spike in ticket sales. Audra will be at eight and a half months pregnant at the premiere and Bill will be right by her side just like the perfect little family they are. And then they'll disappear. Bill is going to start focusing on novels again. Audra is going to focus on the baby. They say Richie's welcome to stay with them in Vermont whenever he needs to, but Richie isn't stupid. They don't need a twenty-five year old baby when they have a newborn.

"So, how's Eddie?" Audra says as she helps herself to seconds. Richie's eaten barely anything at all.

Stan shoots a glare at Audra. He's at the head of the table, like he always is. He says it's because he's left-handed, but Richie thinks it's because he likes the gravitas of it all. 

"So, we're just going to pretend that this is a normal conversation topic?" Stan says. 

"Well if we're already pretending that you aren't a passive aggressive asshole, I don't see how that would be a stretch," Richie snaps back.

Bill clears his throat. Stan backs down.

"Ok. Sure. Fine. Tell us, Richie. How's your friend?" It's a good thing Stan is an accountant because he wouldn't make a dime as an actor.

"Eddie's fine. We're fine. It's all fine." Richie stares at the wallpaper and gives it a tight, wide smile. Things aren't fine with Eddie. They still talk, but it's not the same. Now that the fall semester has started, Eddie's schedule has ballooned. He isn't bartending anymore and he's dropped tutoring too in order to focus on school. If everything goes as planned, he'll have enough credits to graduate at the end of this semester. Richie tells himself that it's the stress of classes that's making Eddie pull away, but he can't make himself believe it. Richie wants to be with Eddie; Eddie doesn't want to be with Richie. Plain and simple and ridiculous and awful.

"That's good," Audra says. "I'm happy for you two. Why don't you invite him over to L.A. for the weekend sometime? I'd love to meet him."

Stan's eye twitches. Mike gives him a look. Mike and Bill are still openly tentative about Eddie, but they aren't fighting it. Audra's decided she's all in. Stan won't discuss it.

"Well, he's very busy," Richie says. "School, work, he has a lot going on."

"Is he working through Thanksgiving break? Maybe he could come over then. Bill and I will be at my parents' for a few days, but Eddie will be off from the twenty-first until the twenty-fifth and we can definitely work around that."

"How do you know when he's off?"

"I may have looked up NYU schedule after you told me he goes there," Audra says with a smirk.

Stan excuses himself to the bathroom.

"Sorry about him," Mike says. "You know how cautious he is."

"Cautious," Richie says. "Right. Well he doesn't have to worry. Eddie wouldn't come even if I begged.” If Richie weren’t so lethargic, he would probably crack a joke at this point.  _ Well actually I do beg and Eddie comes a lot. We have phone sex, get it? I’m Richie and I make raunchy jokes, it’s sort of my thing. Oh? I haven’t been doing that lately? Oh? I haven’t been doing that since Hollywood took a bite of me and chewed until there was nothing left? Oh? Since meeting Eddie I’ve started to act more like myself again? Of course, of course.  _

“Are you sure? Have you asked him?”

“I don’t need to.” Mind reading, mind reading, mind reading. He can practically hear his book screaming from the guest room.  _ He doesn’t want to see me,  _ Richie wants to say, but it would hurt too much. 

His phone dings. 

_ Eddie. 7:32 p.m.  _

_ Can you talk right now? _

Richie excuses himself and goes to his room. He stares blankly at his phone for at least a minute before he calls Eddie. 

Eddie answers not a half a second later. And he doesn’t answer with a hello, a hi, or a how are you. He answers just like this:

"I haven't slept with anyone in two months."

“Uh–"

“I think about you all the time. I think about how sad it makes me that we aren’t talking as much anymore and I think about how you looked at me in the bar and I think about your beautiful face, which I swear would be just as beautiful if you’d gotten no work done at all. I like you, Richie.”

"I like you, too," Richie says a bit ragged; a bit breathless; completely truthful. "I like you a lot."

“I can't do this anymore.”

Richie’s heart freezes. “What can’t you do, Eddie? I’m so confused and I’m tired of trying to figure it out. So just tell me. Please.”

“I can’t be your secret. I like you too much.”

“My secret? Eddie, I’ve been trying to get closer to you and you don’t even want to see my face when I talk to you.”

“It’s easier for me that way. It’s easier to pretend that I don’t love you.”

“Love me?”

“Yes, you idiot. I just… it’s the anniversary of my dad’s death today. I don’t know what he would think if he could see me now. I don’t know what he would think if he knew I was gay. I don’t know what he would think if he knew I sometimes wore makeup. But I choose to think that he wouldn’t care. That he would love me. That he would accept me. I have to make that choice every damn day, because I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that he married a woman he didn’t love. I know he married a woman who didn’t respect him. I know he married an awful woman who only became more awful after he was gone. And I know – or at least I’ve hoped it so long and so hard that I’ve convinced myself it’s something I know – that he wouldn’t want me to make the same mistake. And I deserve that. I deserve to love and be loved.”

“Eddie, I don’t understand. I love you.”

“You don't understand. I want to be with you.”

“So be with me,” Richie says, raw and desperate. “Just be with me. It’s all I’ve wanted.”

“If we were to be together, what would that mean?”

It’s a good question. It’s a complicated question. It’s a question Richie doesn’t know how to answer. So he plays dumb. “It would mean that we’re dating. It would mean that you’re my boyfriend and I’m your boyfriend.”

“You’re a celebrity.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re in the closet.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“No. Yes. No and yes.”

“Eddie.”

“I know I’m not making a lot of sense. I know… or maybe I don’t. It’s all so much, Richie. I don’t know how to say it.”

“Come to L.A."

"Richie–"

"Let me fly you out. I know the money thing makes you feel uncomfortable but you can pay me back. Just let me get you a plane ticket, I'll get one for Bev and Ben too. Why don't you all just come over here and… and…"

"And what? What would you do if I said yes? Show me the town? Take me on a date?"

Richie's throat is heavy and thick and the opening can't possibly be wider than a pinprick. He wants to say yes, but he chokes on the word.

“I don’t think you would," Eddie says. "You haven’t even come out yet. Why?”

“It isn’t that easy. I don’t… I don’t have a normal life.”

“I know. That’s the problem, isn’t it? God, I've spent so long not letting myself get too close to anyone. And then, of all the people in the world, I had to fall in love with you, Richie. Someone the whole world knows. The whole world but me. Someone who can only be with me over the telephone.”

"The whole world doesn't know me. They don't know me at all. Don't come to L.A. I'll come to New York… or… or… we could go somewhere else… somewhere small…" He's grasping at straws and they're slipping through his fingers. He can't lose Eddie. He just can't. "I love you, Eddie. I fucking love you and you love me too, you said you loved me. Please don't–" He bites down on the inside of his cheek. 

"Richie–"

“Radio disc-jockey.”

“What?”

“A few months ago, you asked me what I would be if I could be anything in the world. I would be a DJ on a radio station where I got to play all the music I love and in between I would get to tell jokes and do impressions and make people laugh. I would still get to work in the entertainment industry but I would get to do it my way. My face would be my own and everything would be on my terms. I wish I could’ve done that all along.”

Eddie does the damndest, most beautiful thing he can do. He laughs. "I can see that. You would be good at it."

A wave of something Richie can only describe as  _ something  _ rushes through him. “How can I make this a good conversation? Because I can’t deal with it being a bad one."

"I don't want it to be a bad conversation either."

"I don't know where that leaves us."

Eddie is quiet for a very long time. Itchy silence. "It leaves me coming to L.A."

Richie's breath comes giddy and beautiful from the center of his chest. "Really? You'll come?"

"Oh, I sure hope I will. That was a sex joke, get it?"

"I get it." Richie laughs again.

"I'm coming to L.A., but I have conditions."

"What are they?"

"I'm going to buy my ticket. We're going to go on a date. I'm going to stay at your place."

And just like that, Eddie breaks his own rules. 

"Yes. Yes to all of it. I love you, Eddie. I love you so much.”

 

As Stan was leaving the bathroom, he heard Richie on the phone, on the verge of tears. And so he waited outside the door, ready to comfort Richie just like he's done so many times before. He wasn't ready for the love confession. He wasn't ready not to be needed. 

  
  


It's been five months since New York and everything is about to fall apart.

It starts with a text that looks just like this:

_ Mrs. Denninger. 10:28 a.m. _

_ Congratulations. You're being blackmailed. _

_ Come to my office ASAP. _

_ That means now. _

_ Unless, of course, you want to be outed as a gay drug addict.  _

All he has to do is screenshot what you've sent him or record your calls and he can ruin your life. Bill warned him.

Family secrets. Shit talk about Hollywood. Shit talk about his friends. Shit talk about his fans. Talk of past drug abuse. Talk about depression. Talk about the meaning of life. Dick pics. Nudes at every angle. Videos of him talking dirty. Videos of him masturbating. Videos of him begging. Verifiable porn. Love confessions. Everything.

So Richie calls Eddie and leaves a voicemail that sounds just like this:

_ To Eddie. 10:30 a.m. _

_ "You promised me. You said you loved me. I… I don't even know what to say. Why would you do this? Is it because I haven't come out yet? Or has this all been fake? You knew who I was the whole time, didn't you? Was any of it real at all? Everything you said… fuck you. Fuck your stories about your dad dying and your mom abusing you and the kids beating you up for being gay and all the other fake shit you said. Fuck everything about you." _

He hangs up and throws his phone across the room. It rings and rings and rings and he does not answer. 

 

_ Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. 10:45 a.m. 10:46 a.m. 10:47 a.m. _

 

Mrs. Denninger has a Miró print in her office. Richie asked her about it once (he’s scared of her, as everyone seems to be, and he thought that idle chit chat might help; it didn’t). She told him that it’s called  _ Ciphers and Constellations in Love with a Woman.  _ It’s a scattering of lines and dots and misshapen stars. A phallic shape. A vulvate shape. And then there are eyes, yellow and green where they should be white, red rings around the irises, bullseye pupils. It’s a painting that isn’t supposed to make sense. Or maybe it’s a painting that  _ is  _ supposed to make sense. Mrs. Denninger wouldn’t tell him. 

It’s not for her to see, that much is certain. It hangs on the wall behind her desk and stares at whomever is unfortunate enough to be on the other side. Richie thinks she has it that way so he is forced to look at her rather than look at that awful, penetrative print. 

“So,” Mrs. Denninger says in a dry, papery voice. “Where do we begin?”

Richie looks away. The print stares him down until he returns his eyes to Denninger. She’s eighty-five years old but she looks ten, maybe even fifteen, years younger. Her hair is dyed a subtle sort of blond and her face is made up with just enough makeup to make it seem she’s wearing none at all. Richie’s only ever seen her wearing paisley or Burberry plaid, all in subdued purples and browns. Plum. Puce. She still smokes in her office, even though it was banned twenty-three years ago in California. She doesn’t even open a window. 

"A hundred grand,” she says as she lights up. “That’s how much they want.” It’s not right. Not for everything Eddie has. Not with Eddie knowing how much he does about what Richie has. He could get millions. “Well, a hundred each. Three hundred total.”

“Three?” Eddie and Bev and Ben. They're all on in on it. Richie’s skin flushes with embarrassment and humiliation and overwhelming pain and heartbreak. 

“It’s a tidy little scam.”

“Little?” Richie tears up. He can’t help it. A strangled noise escapes his throat.

“You can cry but please just be civil about it. Please don’t have snot running down your nose. Please don’t have a puffy red face. Please don't wail or sob or make any embarrassing noises. It’s uncouth. Now, how did you know there was three of them?”

“I… because I met them… because they were nice to me… because… because…”

“Oh dear. It makes my job difficult when you get like this, Richard. I’ve never had a motherly touch. I never liked children and I’ve certainly never liked crying. You know, in 1963, when I was just starting my career, I was the only female agent I knew. It was a real boy’s club. It still is. When I got in the game, it scared a lot of the big guys. They thought all the young starlets would flock to me. Some of them did, but they turned right around after we met. No, my female clients have only ever been older women with established careers. But it’s always been the young men who really want me to represent them. Old women and young men have got me my bread and butter for over half a century. Why do you think that is?"

Richie sniffles.

"I don't know either," Mrs. Denninger says. "I've figured out the women, they want someone like them. I’m good at what I do because I’m tough. Women have to be tougher than men to keep a career in show business until they're old and wrinkled. They call me the Iron Lady of Hollywood. I'm not a mommy. I don't do welfare checks. I get my clients good jobs and good money and I leave the rest to them. It works for the women. But if there's one thing I've learned in all my years, it's that Hollywood kills men in a different way than it kills women. 

"America doesn't know what to do with sensitive boys. And the boys, they know that too. They don’t always realize they know it, but they do. They know they only get to be cute and dumb and funny for so long before people start laughing at them instead of with them. Isn't that right, Richard? So these boys, they come to me. They come to a woman who will tell them what to do. And the child stars are always the worst off. Their whole lives they've been able to do whatever they want. Jonathan Brandis, River Phoenix – we all watched those boys tear themselves apart. Now, Richard, tell me, am I going to have to watch it happen to you too? What you've done is irresponsible to say the least."

"He said he loved me," Richie says so quietly that he isn't sure whether he actually said it aloud or not. It's not meant for the ciphers and constellations. But Denninger hears it. Her ears are sharper than they have any right to be. 

She clears her throat. “Who?"

"Eddie."

"Who is Eddie?"

"Eddie… maybe he lied about his name. I don't know. How could it be a lie? How could all of this be a lie? Everything that he said… Fuck! I just… I can’t even be angry…”

Denninger stares at him with eyes made thick with age. "Richard, tell me what you think this is about."

"What do you mean?"

Denninger opens her desk drawer and pulls out a stack of glossy photos. They're all of him at the club.

Him walking down the stairs. Him looking at the go-go dancers. Him with the dealer. Him with the baggie in his hands. Him with the baggie in his pocket. Him at the bar. Him leaving with a man in skin-tight leather pants and makeup. 

The other shoe has finally dropped.

"You were in a club, an obviously gay one at that, and you bought cocaine. At least I hope it was cocaine. If you’ve started heroin, you’re good as dead.”

“I haven’t–“

“Glad to hear it. Now, I think I've worked out the scam. Three men go to a big club in downtown New York, one grifter and two shills. They wait for someone gullible to show up and the grifter stages a deal with the first shill in front of their mark. Then the grifter approaches the mark and offers them drugs. That's when the second shill comes in and takes a picture from somewhere hidden in the crowd. Afterwards they track down the mark down as they leave the club and threaten to post the photos on the internet. I bet it works less than a quarter of the time. If the con-artists don't know who the person is or where they work or how to get in touch with their family, then it's just a random photo on the internet. I say they get fifty bucks a night tops from people who get scared and open their wallets before they realize just how unlikely that photo would have any actual impact on their lives. It's a stupid low game with a lot of work and little yield. Unless, of course, the con-artists would be so lucky to find a celebrity. A big one too, with lots of money and face recognition. Being in a gay club is just the icing on the cake. I'm surprised they were able to keep it together when they found you. Someone everyone knows. Someone whose sexuality has been speculated on before. Someone whose been suspected of using drugs before. And now these three idiots have proof. I guess they've been sitting on these photos for a while now, deciding where to sell them. But I guess they aren't so dumb after all. There's more money in blackmail.”

A scam. That night five months ago, as they were leaving the club, Eddie pointed the dealer out to the bouncer and said he was doing a scam. Richie hasn't thought about it since. And now here it all is. 

_ You didn’t buy from that guy, did you? _

His phone burns in his pocket. His head is spinning too fast to catch up. Self-soothing. Half-smile. Willing hands. Cocaine. Richie is coming unravelled. He can't remember how to breathe. He can't explain that the photos are out of order. He can't talk at all. 

"Your career would recover from the drugs. It would be embarrassing, yes, but it wouldn't last forever. If we play it right, we could make you more empathetic than ever. But this," she jabs a finger at the picture of Eddie, "I'm not so sure. Things like this are too hard to predict how they might play out. There would be plenty of talk, I know that much. Publicity by controversy never fails, the music industry has taught us that much. All this new social media internet star bullshit, too. It's guerilla tactics. It's all about contention. Live fast and wild and die quick and stupid. 

“You know, it used to be the actors who lived by scandal. Lupe Velez drowned in her toilet. Clara Bow slept with an entire football team. Ramon Navarro died with a diamond-encrusted dildo shoved down his throat. It didn't matter if it was true, it just had to be salacious. And now hardly anyone remembers them. That’s why the old legends liked me. They survived the wrath of the Golden Age of Hollywood and they knew I would protect them from whatever is left of it. And it’s what I've been trying so hard to protect you from, too. I don't care what you do in your free time. I don't care if you like women or men, and if you say you like both, I guess that's fine too. If being in the closet has caused you this much distress, then we can find a nice, calm, socially acceptable way for you too come out. But if these pictures get out, you’re opening yourself up to derision. If you’re seen with someone like this,” she jabs at Eddie again, “your sexuality will always be a scandal.

"So I say we pay them off. I’ll draw up the NDAs and get them to sign. As for you, three hundred grand is a lot of money no matter how rich you are. It seems like now would be a good time for you to have a talk with your accountant. Don't you think?”

Richie doesn't know what else to do, so he stands up and turns to leave.

"One more thing," Denninger says, "scrape that laquer off your nails before anyone sees. I don't want to ever see something like that on you again. I'll schedule you a haircut for tomorrow too. I got an offer for a series of BMW commercials on my desk yesterday. We can discuss it next week."

 

_ Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. 11:57 a.m. 12:32 p.m. 1:00 p.m. _

 

Stan’s office is nothing like Mrs. Denninger's. The building is far from the glossy towers in downtown L.A.. Bernthal, Johnson, & Uris is housed in a beautiful Colonial Revival home built in the 20’s and renovated into office space in the 90’s. It still feels like an old home though. Stan’s office was once a living room, complete with a SoCal style decorative fireplace.

His office is all leather chairs and hardwood floors and meticulous file cabinets. It’s also all bookcases full of well-loved books and warm cream-colored walls and a Persian carpet that’s a little tattered in one corner from where Stan’s chair rolls over it when he gets up. The office is not intimidating and it’s not grandiose. It’s just like Stan, who is logical and calculating and integrous and surprisingly modest. There’s a ceiling fan that’s always on and clicking just a little bit like a clock as it spins around. There’s a couch in the corner where Richie has taken more than a few naps in his life. A humidifier. An inexplicable stack of Benny Goodman records. A 1932 Remington typewriter with an extra-wide carriage. Stan is a bit of an eccentric, there's no denying that.

Like Richie, Stan was a rich kid. His father is the dean of Jewish studies at UCLA. His mother is a lawyer who’s made millions for representing the state of California against Big Tobacco. She was instrumental in winning the case that allowed California to instate the ban that Mrs. Denninger so flippantly ignores. Stan’s mom also happens to be friends with the senior accountant at his firm – which led to an act of nepotism that Stan is not proud of but accepted nonetheless. 

Stan’s been in this office since he was twenty-two. Richie was Stan’s first client and he's brought in plenty of other business too. It wasn't exactly a hard sell, either. Stan is good at what he does. It takes a special sort of brain to be able to handle multi-millionaires straight out of college and Stan excels at it. Last year, he made the top of a Thirty Under Thirty list in a magazine that nobody who isn’t an accountant reads. Stan keeps the article next to his diploma, he's that proud of it.

And then, of course, there are all of Stan's pictures. 

He has a glass display cabinet that absolutely stuffed with them. Richie just happens to be in all of them. There's one of them outside the uppity private elementary school they met at. There's one of Richie stuffing his face with Andrea's challah at Stan's bar mitzvah. There's one of them at Stan's graduation. There's one of Richie smiling on as Stan and Mike kiss for the first time as husbands underneath a rose-covered chuppah. 

In short, Stan’s office is familiar and intimate and safe. Usually. 

Right now, it’s none of those things. Right now, it’s a place of confrontation. 

“You told me you were clean!” Stan’s face is red and the veins in his neck are popping. “You swore to me!”

“I am clean!” Richie gives it right back.

“Denninger faxed me the fucking pictures!”

“They’re out of order, you asshole!” He’s sure found his voice now. “I… fuck. I didn’t do the drugs! This guy came up to me and offered them and he slipped them into my pocket but for Christ’s sake I gave them back. I’m fucking clean. I have been for three years. The pictures are out of fucking order. I fucking gave them back.”

“Richie.”  
“You don’t fucking believe me, do you?”  
“It doesn’t matter. Either way they have pictures of you with the drugs in your hands and the drugs in your pocket.”  
“It does fucking matter whether you believe me or not! I didn’t use! Dammit, why can't you just take my word on this, Stan? I fucking need you to. I've fucking needed you to trust me for the past few months and you won't give just one lick of support."

"Oh, so we're talking about him, now?" Stan grabs one of the faxed-over photos. The one of Eddie. Eddie, who Richie thought had betrayed him just a few hours ago. Eddie, who Richie accused of making up all the rawest parts of him. Eddie, who Richie is so terrified of losing after what he said that he can't even build up the courage to answer the phone. Eddie, who Stan has always hated. 

"Don't talk about Eddie."

“You aren’t with him. Ok? This is a guy you met in a bar, had sex with once, and now you've decided you're in love with him. Newsflash, your life isn’t going to be fixed by him. Whatever you think is between the two of you isn't real. You have a way of romanticizing things.”

“I have a way of romanticizing things? Me? You met your husband in a fucking rose garden!”

Stan clenches his jaw. "You need to get help, Richie. There isn't anything wrong with admitting it. You've had a very difficult life and none of this is your fault, but there is something wrong and you know it. The intrusive thoughts, the fear of abandonment, the impulsivity, the disrupted sense of identity, the sleeping pill incident because you refuse to admit what it really was, the self-destructive behavior, the drugs, and now, this little  _ relationship–" _

"Don't fucking say it like that!" 

"Cut the crap, Richie. I've been looking into some private facilities that can help you."

"What the hell do you mean, facilities?"

"Places with doctors. Places that can help you get better."

"You’re finally fed up with me. I knew this would happen. I knew you would get sick of having me in your house–"

"I didn't say that! I just… I worry about you every goddamn day. When's Richie going to have his next breakdown? When's Richie going to swallow a bunch of sleeping pills again?"

"You're saying I'm crazy?"

"It's always on the fucking defense with you. I'm saying you have symptoms. You need to get treated and stop all this bullshit."

"I am getting treated! I bought a fucking book! I didn't want to tell you because you always fucking pity me but I've been working on myself this whole goddamn time!"

"Whatever is wrong with you needs a whole lot more than a book to fix."

Richie can't stop angry tears from running down his face. 

"Fuck," Stan says. He collapses into his chair and runs his fingers through his curls. "I shouldn't have said it like that. I'm not trying to put you anywhere. I just think that a behavioral health facility with a friendly staff and a good psychiatrist and a private room would be good for you. Just for a month or two. It'll be like a vacation."

"Fuck that. I've been getting better and you haven't even noticed. You don't think I can change. I know you don't. You can stop pretending."

"What are you talking about?"

"You said that famous people stop maturing at the age they get famous. You think of me as a fucking toddler."

"I didn't think you heard me say that."

"Do you really believe it?"

"I've known you for a long time, Richie."

"That's not a fucking answer."

"What do you want me to say, Richie? Honestly?"

“You know what? You say you know how hard my life has been, but you don’t really have the first fucking clue. You don’t know what it’s like to be me. You don’t know what this world has taken from me.”

“You think that your pain is so big and so beautiful that nobody else’s could possibly compare. Has it ever occured to you that maybe you’re so focused on how the world has hurt you that you can’t even realize when you hurt other people?"

"Who have I hurt?"

"I'm not having this conversation."

"No, seriously. Who have I hurt, Stan?" Richie's eyes turn dark. They're getting to the dangerous part of an argument and they're getting there quick. It's the point of irreversibility. The point when you say things so terrible you can never take them back. "You want to get mean? Fine. Let's get mean. I think I've figured it out. This is all an excuse."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's not that you don't want to see me with Eddie. It's not that you don't want to see me get hurt. And it's not that you think this is unhealthy. No, it's that you don’t want to see me with someone who isn’t you. You never made a fuss when I dated women. Now that I’m with a man, all you can think of is that you aren't him.”

Stan stands up. "Excuse me?"

"That's it! You could never fucking get over me. You were obsessed with me the whole time we were kids. You were so fucking in love with me and you still are."

"Get out of my office."

"I'm right, aren't I? Does Mike know you're in love with me?"

"Get out!"

"No."

"Fuck you."

Richie shoves him. Stan hits him. His wedding ring splits Richie's lip. 

"You're fucked up, Stan. You know that? You're married and you're in love with your best friend. Is that why you want to put me away somewhere? Because you can't stand not having me?"

"Do you understand what you're saying, or are you just trying to lash out? Well either way, fuck you. Do you hear that, Richard?  _ Fuck you, you childish twat _ . Fuck you as a friend and fuck you as a client." Stan digs a key out of his pocket and goes over to the file cabinet. He opens the top drawer, pulls all of its contents into his arms and throws them at Richie. “Here! It’s all yours now, Tozier! Your mortgage, your mom’s mortgage, state taxes, federal income tax, property tax, utilities, vacations, spending sprees, travel expenses, charitable donations, investments, insurances, every type of expense imaginable, it’s all there! Not one fucking cent out of place! And now it's all your fucking responsibility. I hope you're as smart as your pretend to be, considering you never even learned your times tables. Good fucking luck."

"Wait–"

"No. You leave me the fuck alone from now on. Get help, don't get help. See if I care. Now get the fuck out of my office. And if I come home and find you or any of your shit in my house, I will call the police on you. Just fucking try me.”

A photo of Richie and Stan as teenagers smiles at him as he leaves with his arms full of his papers and blood dripping down his chin.

 

_ Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. 3:00 p.m 4:30 p.m. 5:00 p.m. _

 

Richie calls Bill. Bill doesn't answer. Richie calls Bill. Bill doesn't answer. Richie calls Bill.

"R-Richie, I c-c-can't talk right now."

"Stan and I got into a fight. I need to stay at your place tonight."

"I'm g-going to Vermont r-right now."

"You can't just fucking leave without telling me. I need to be with someone. Jesus Bill, I'm in a bad place right now, please–"

"I c-c-c-can't. Something's h-happened."

"What?" Richie barks.

"Audra's m-mom just called. She was t-t-taken to the hospital a f-few hours ago. She's b-b-bleeding and they think they're g-g-going to have to do and e-emergency c-c-c–"

Richie's heart falls to the pit of his stomach. "C-section? She's barely six months. Is the… Jesus, Bill. Is everything going to be ok?"

"They d-d-don't know. Listen, I've g-got to go. I c-can't miss my flight."

The line drops before Richie can scramble to find words of comfort.

 

_ Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Eddie. 5:30 p.m 6:45 p.m. 8:00 p.m. _

 

Richie's house smells stale. It makes sense. He hasn't been inside it for nearly half a year. He throws his car keys and his financial records and a bag of his stuff on the couch. He wonders what it would feel like to stick his hand down the garbage disposal and turn it on. He supposes that's what Stan meant by symptoms. He supposes he already knew he had those particular symptoms. He supposes that's why he bought himself a book meant for people with borderline personality disorder.

The blood on his chin is dry and crusted, but it's only now that his lip starts to throb.

And so he starts to cry. He cries about the awful voice message he left to Eddie. He cries about the way Mrs. Denninger pointed to the picture of Eddie with disgust. He cries about what he said to Stan. He cries for Bill and Audra and their baby. He's crying about all these terrible, irreversible things. But most of all, he's crying for himself.

He's all alone now.

He can't call Eddie back. He just can't.

He lets all the dangerous, awful, terrible thoughts he's been working so hard to destroy come flooding back. The thoughts that he isn't real. The thoughts that it wouldn't matter if he was. The thoughts that even if he were to die tonight, it would be cinematic. That the whole world would stand up out of their seats and start clapping. That The All-Dead Band would play on.  _ Richard Tozier Found Dead. Richard Tozier Overdosed on Sidewalk in Front of Club. Richard Tozier Drowned in Toilet.  _ Everything he's ever done has been a performance. It doesn't matter what happens what comes next. It doesn't matter that he's choking, because Hollywood has made choking beautiful. It's a postmodern sacrifice, don't you know?

He wonders just how much his autopsy photos would sell for. He wonders if he could break a record. He could get up right now and turn on his gas burners and let himself float away into the starless sky.

And it would be beautiful. 

There's a knock on his door. It's Mike.

Richie lets him in. 

Mike doesn't say anything, he just walks through the door, across the living room, and into Richie's kitchen. He washes his hands and grabs the first-aid kit Stan put under the sink a few years ago. Then, he opens the freezer, grabs a handful of ice cubes, and wraps them up in a dish towel. He returns to the living room and looks at Richie.

"Sit down," Mike says.

Richie does. Mike sits next to him and carefully tilts Richie's head up. He cleans the blood off Richie’s chin and treats his lip. He presses the ice against it when he’s finished. 

They don’t talk, at least not for a while. They just sit there, next each other, with heavy words unspoken. Richie chips off his nail polish. Audra painted them just a few days before going back to Vermont. Little emerald flakes fall in his lap. 

“Why are you here?” Richie finally says.

“Why do you think?”

“Stan has no business sending you.”

“Stan didn’t send me.”

“But you heard what happened.” 

“Of course I did.”

“What did Stan say?”

“Well, when I came home. I found Stan in our bedroom, on our bed. And his face was so red and his eyes were so puffy and his cheeks were so wet and he was crying more than I’ve ever seen him cry in my life. He told me you two got into a fight. He told me that he said some terrible things to you. He told me that he was attacking you even though he knew you didn’t deserve it. He said he didn’t know why he was saying such awful things. Then he told me that you said some terrible things back. And then he told me that you kept telling him terrible things and they just kept getting worse and worse. And then he said that you pushed him. And then he said he hit you. He said that he dropped you as a client. That he threw things at you. That he kicked you out of his office. That he kicked you out of our house.”

“Did he tell you what it was that I said?”

“Yes.”

Richie doesn't say anything for awhile. He takes the ice from Mike and puts it on the coffee table. It will melt and it will leave water stains. He doesn't care. “What did you think of me when we first met, Mike?”

“Well I was dating this really beautiful, really smart, really amazing guy and he told me that his best friend was sort of a lot.”

“Stan is an asshole.”

“Stop it.”

“So I’m the asshole?”

“There doesn’t always have to be an asshole. You need to stop thinking of the world in absolutes.”

“You sound like Stan.”

“Married people are like that sometimes." Mike laughs, but it isn't an amused laugh. Richie isn't sure what it is. “I know that Stan was in love with you. I knew it before he told me what you said.”

“How?”

“We’re married. We tell each other these things. A few months after we started dating, he told me that he was in love with you for years."

"And you were okay with that?"

"Yes. The idea of a one true love is a myth. Stan and I have both loved other people before. Most people do. What matters is that we love each other now." A pause. "I know you were in love with him too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. When Stan and I first started dating, you didn't hide it as well as you thought. He was the first person you ever loved and you loved him for a very long time. But I need you to know that he doesn't love you anymore. Not like that."

"I… I didn't mean…"

"I know you didn't, but you still said it."

“Why do you put up with me? Why have you  _ ever  _ put up with me? Do you really love Stan that much?”

“I love Stan more than anything else in the whole world, but I don’t put up with you because of him. I don’t ‘put up’ with you at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s not what friendship is.”

"You shouldn't be my friend. I don't deserve friends."

Mike sighs. "You don't always get to be the victim, Richie. And when you say things like that, that's what you're trying to be. You want me to sit here and try to convince you that you're a good person, but I can't do that. Good people aren't always good. Sometimes good people say awful things just to make the people they love hurt."

"I… I'm sorry for what I said to Stan. I'm so fucking sorry."

"I was talking about both of you. He shouldn't have said what he did about you and Eddie. But he did."

"I love Eddie. I really love him and I think I ruined that today. I think I ruined a lot of other things." Mike doesn't say anything. "Stan thinks I'm sick. He said he wants to put me away."

"I'm sure that's not what he said."

"It's practically what he said."

"Look, Stan's never forgiven himself for not being the one who was able to help you get clean and he's never forgiven himself for not being able to fix you. Because that's who Stan is, he's a fixer. I've spent years trying to convince him that that's not what you need. Maybe now he'll finally believe it." Mike stands up.

"Can… can you stay the night here? I don't want to be by myself."

"I have to go home, Richie. I came here to make sure you were ok and you are. You might not think it, but it's true." He grabs his keys. "After what happened today, I think we all need some time apart. Things are going to be hard for a few days, for all of us. Bill texted me what happened. Right now we all need to focus on Audra. And that's how I know that you're going to be ok. You aren't going to hurt yourself and you aren't going to buy drugs and you aren't going to disappear because we all need you to be ok."

“It’s hard for me, Mike. It’s really hard.”

“I know. I love you, Richie. We all do."

"I love you too, Mike."

Mike hugs him. And then he leaves. 

 

Richie takes his book out of his bag and starts to tear the pages out. He tears them into halves, into quarters, into eighths, into little pieces of confetti. He takes his Oscar out of his cabinet. He knocks its head off again. He goes into his room and pulls out his stack of envelopes. Stan's stupid, neat, fastidious handwriting stares back. He can't make himself rip them apart. 

 

_ Missed call from Eddie. Missed call from Bev. Missed call from Ben. 10:45 p.m. 10:46 p.m. 10:47 p.m. _

 

Lupe Velez and Adam Sandler and Posh Spice and Lauren Bacall and the Olive Garden and the  _ Daily Mail  _ and Ray-Bans and three-hundred thousand dollars and drugs and the world spins and it spins and it spins and everything is irreversible.

Change is not linear. It loops and divots and twists and dips and crashes right off the face of the Earth. 


	4. The Thing About Rock Bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! This was supposed to be the last chapter, but the first scene is kind of a lot to digest so it felt wrong to shove it into the resolution. So the chapter count went up again. Whoops.  
> Also, fair warning, this chapter contains a lot of uncomfortable/disturbing content. If that isn't your jam, maybe skip this one, but I promise that it's pertinent to the overall story.

 

# The Thing About Rock Bottom

 

Richie is alone when he wakes up. It's still dark out, but it’s not a normal darkness. It's a special timeless sort of dark that leaves you sweaty and confused. It's a sort of dark that doesn't come at all if you stay up late and try to chase it. No, this sort of dark comes to you (or rather, it is _thrust_ upon you) at three or four in the morning when the blankets are too hot or the air is too stiff or your body can just tell that something isn't right. And so you wake up sweaty and confused and let's face it, probably a bit hungover too, maybe even still drunk. If you're Richard Tozier, this is when you throw up.

So that's exactly what he does.

Just as soon as he sits up, everything in his stomach comes retching out. A trail of red spit stretches from his mouth to the puddle of vomit in his lap. His lip must have split open again in the middle of the night, but he isn't sure if the metallic taste is the blood or the memory of Stan's wedding ring.

He groans. He gropes the bedside table for the bottle of Bailey's he left there for exactly this reason. He takes a nice, hefty drink and swallows it right down. It does not taste purifying. It tastes like milk and vomit and bed sheets.

And then he passes out again.

 

The second time he wakes up, it's still dark, but he isn't alone.

"Wake up, asshole."

It's Beverly Marsh standing in the threshold of the door. She's wearing red bell-bottoms, a black crop top, and a very authentic pair of Ray-Bans. She's wearing the red scarf again. It look stark and vivid against her neck.

"What?" Richie says. He tries to remember just how much he had to drink last night. Or the last few nights. Or the last week. He isn't really sure when today is. He sits up in bed. And then he vomits again.

"Wow," Bev whistles. "I mean just _wow._ That was so pathetic it's almost impressive." She takes the bottle of Bailey's, smells it, and gags.

"Did I dream you up just to verbally harass me?" Richie lies back in bed and closes his eyes. He curls in on himself. The vomit sloshes around.

"Not a dream, Richie."

"Everything is a dream," he argues. "We're all just asleep in the great Hollywood void. You know why there are no stars? I finally figured it out, Bill. We're the stars. The poetry's all in us, just like you said. We're all sick and beautiful. Withering is beautiful."

"Are you trying to get me to puke too? Come on, drunky. You're getting up."

She pulls him up by the armpits and drags him out of the bed. He falls on the floor with a thud.

"Oh my God," Bev wheezes. "You're heavy."

"Everything's heavy."

"I'm not dragging you the whole way."

"Where we goin'? Bill? Stan?"

"It's Beverly, jackass. Are we going to have to get your stomach pumped? That'd be really embarrassing. And if you've deluded yourself into thinking all this nastiness is pretty, just wait until you've got a tube down your throat sucking the gunk out of your stomach. You won't be saying that you're beautiful then. I mean come on, how do you think you look right now?"

"I look just like a pretty lady in an Edgar Allan Poe story. I'm pale and thin and wasting away. I'm lovely."

Bev pulls out her phone and takes a picture of him. The flash hurts his eyes. He thinks he might be a vampire. A beautiful, poetic vampire.

"Look at this," Bev says. She shoves her phone in Richie's face. He recoils at the sight of the man in the picture. Sure, he's pale, but his face also has a green hue. Sure, he's thin, but he's bloated from drinking. His hair is matted in the back. His eyes are red and groggy. His shirt is sweated through. He isn't wearing pants.

"Who's that?" Richie asks, squinting. His vision is blurry and doubled.

"It's you."

"What?"

"Sorry to break it you, but you're gross."

Richie moans.

"I know. Now get up because I'm not dragging your half-naked ass to the bathroom." Richie stands on wobbly feet. He expects Bev to help steady him. She doesn't.

Richie stumbles to his ensuite and immediately collapses into the bathtub. Bev turns the showerhead on and cold water sprays down on him. He yelps.

"Now I'm going to turn away so you can clean yourself, ok? But I'm not going to leave. Wouldn't want you to drown. Eddie would be disappointed, don't you think?"

"Eddie?" The cold water is mean and sobering.

"Yep." She pops her 'p.' "Unless you want him to see you like this, I suggest you get cleaned up."

"What? Why are you here? How are you here? How'd you get in? I have a gate around my house and a security system. What the fuck is going on? How'd you even figure out where I live?"

Bev pulls out a crumpled map and unfolds it. It says, STARLINE TOURS PRESENTS: GUIDE TO THE STARS!! Richie's house is circled in red sharpie.

"I had to pay three hundred bucks and go on a bus tour just to get this map, can you believe it? I got to see David Blaine's house though, and that was pretty cool. Cooler than this joint, anyway."

"What?"

"I jumped out of the window of a tour bus, Richie. I mean sure it was slowed down and I was on the first level, but still! I could have twisted my ankle."

"What?"

"And then imagine how grateful I was to find out that your gate wasn't locked. I mean how lucky was that? And then your door was unlocked too! I don't know about a security system, but no alarms started ringing or anything. That's dangerous, Richie, especially for someone as famous as you. I mean someone crazy could have just waltzed right in here."

Richie peels his shirt off and throws it over the side of the tub. He scrubs the vomit off his face. Bev bends over and starts rifling through his bathroom hutch.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm looking for something." She pulls out a washcloth and throws it at him. It lands with a wet thwap next to him in the filling tub. She keeps going through his stuff.

"You're going to reimburse me, I hope you know," Bev says. "Not just for the tour, but the plane ticket too."

"Or I could get you arrested. Breaking and entering is a serious offense.”

Bev laughs. She finds a tub of lotion in one of the drawers. "Crème de la Mer? Isn't that what the Kardashians use?"

Richie shrugs.

"I've always wanted to try it," she says. "Does it make your face feel baby-smooth?"

"I don't use it on my face."

"Then what–" she drops the tub. "Ew. That's so excessive and exorbitant that I don't know where to begin."

"Lots of men masturbate with lotion."

"Yeah, but most guys don't do it with a lotion that costs $175 per ounce."

Richie starts crying. His gross, wet body shakes with sobs.

"Oh, no Richie. I'm sorry. I didn't know your dick moisturizer meant so much to you."

"It's not that," Richie cries. "I... I just... I'm sorry..."

"Don't do that. Hasn't anyone ever told you that you aren't pretty when you cry? You need to work on it. I can’t believe you got an Oscar when you can’t even cry right."

"What–"

"How much did you have to drink last night, anyway?"

"I... I don't know."

"Alcohol abuse is no joke. My boyfriend used to have a drinking problem. Rough childhood, you know anything about that?"

"I–"

"Ben!" Bev shouts. "Ben, get in here! Come and see Richie! See how drunk he is!"

Ben comes into the bathroom. He's wearing the same Crimson Tide shirt he wore in New York. He looks just the same.

"Oh my God," Ben says. "He looks awful. We can't let Eddie see him like this."

"Where's Eddie?" Richie asks. He tries to stand up, but his legs are too heavy and uncoordinated.

Bev starts looking through his things again.

"What are you looking for?" he demands.

"Dude," Ben says. "Chill."

Bev leaves the hutch alone and walks over to Richie. She starts to pet his hair. "Come on, I told you to get cleaned up."

The tub is just full enough to submerge his head. The water is freezing. He reaches for the tap, but Bev pushes his head under. His forehead knocks against the porcelain and his vision doubles again. She pulls him up by the hair.

"Jesus," Ben says. "Don't hurt him."

"Oh, I have to do this," Bev explains. "He can't do anything by himself." She grabs a bottle of shampoo and kneads a dollop into Richie's long hair. It's mint shampoo that tickles his scalp and makes him shiver as her long, painted nails massage his scalp.

Ben laughs. He sits on the seat of the toilet and pulls out his phone to take a picture.

"No," Richie says. "I already saw. I know I look–"

Bev pushes him under again. He gets a mouthful of water so sudden and shockingly cold that he can't do anything but suck it in. His eyes are open and he can't make himself close them. He stares up at Bev and all he can think is just how much she looks like Audra. Blood pulses from his lip and tints the water pink. His hands claw at the water, reaching, tearing, grabbing, searching for something – anything. Finally, when it seems he can't stand it a moment longer, Bev pulls him back up.

"Whaddya think, Ben?" Bev asks, laughing as Richie chokes up soapy, pink water. "Does he still look dirty to you?"

Ben shrugs. "Hard to say."

Bev hums. She takes her phone out and pulls up the forward-facing camera. "What do you say, Richie? Any better?"

Richie's chest heaves with coughs, but there's no more water to bring up. Whatever went into his mouth either went back into the tub, into his stomach or got sucked far enough into his lungs that it'll stay there, sitting so cold and wet that it might just have to come back and drown him later. He tries to look into the camera, but his vision won't straighten out.

"I can hardly fucking see," he says.

"It's probably because you need glasses," Ben says. Bev laughs.

Richie tries to escape the tub, but his feet slip every time he tries to stand on them. Ben helps him up. Bev pulls the drain up and Richie watches the tub slurp the vodka-cranberry water up.

"Are you okay?" she asks. She bundles him up in a warm towel and kisses his cheek. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"I... my head..."

"Come on, it’s not in here."

"What’re you talking about?"

Ben picks him up and carries him out of the bathroom. Bev leads them into his kitchen and Ben sits him on the counter. Bev starts searching through his cabinets.

"What are you looking for?" he asks. He starts to shiver. He holds his towel close around him, but it can't cover his nakedness.

The doorbell rings.

"Can you get that, babe?" Bev asks. She's half buried in the drawers under Richie's sink, her ass staring up at him like a heart in her red pants.

Ben opens the door. It's Bill and Audra, back from Vermont.

Audra runs over to Richie and holds him close to her chest. "Are you alright?"

"Audra? What happened? Is the baby... are you..."

"We don't care about the baby, sweetie. We care about you." She takes his hand and places it on her stomach. Flat. "You know, we decided it just wasn't the right time for us to have a kid, not while you're sick. I mean I was only twenty-five weeks along anyway, what's to lose?"

"Audra–"

"Babies born that young can't even cry. But you can cry. You cry all the time."

"Ayuh," Bill says. "You're kind of a full-time job." He laughs and laughs and laughs. Ben laughs too.

Audra doesn't. She pulls Richie away from her by the hair. Some of it comes out. "Who washed your hair for you?"

"Guilty," Bev calls from under the sink. She gets up and starts going through the pantry.

"What are you looking for?" he asks again. "Audra, what's she looking for?"

"What do you think?" Bill answers. "Hey, Bev, why don't you go through his bathroom again. Maybe look a bit harder. Ben, try his bedroom, I know he likes to keep things in his dresser. Audra, dear, why don't you look in the other bathrooms? I think Richie and I need another little talk, just the two of us."

Bev and Ben run off. Audra kisses Bill. She locks eyes with Richie and bites down on Bill's lip. He moans into her mouth and then pushes her away.

"Ok, boys," Audra says, straightening her dress. "I'll leave you to it, alright?"

Bill waves her off. He starts to play with the knobs on the stove. He flips them on, lets them light, flips them off. On, light, off. On, light, off. On.

"You know, I would never forgive myself if you did it like this. Not after I told you to be careful. You wouldn't do that to me. Right?"

"Bill, I–"

"You still want me, Richie?"

"What–"

"My wife is in the other room. Do you still want me?"

"No–"

"What would you have done that day if I'd let you?"

"Bill–"

"Would you have gotten on your knees? Would you have begged? Because I heard you like to beg." Bill reaches into his pocket. "Hey, Richie, remember this one? _Is that an erection, or is it just his wallet?"_ He pulls out a packet of Bazooka gum. He takes a piece and starts to gnaw on it. "Listen, Richie.” Gnaw, smack, gnaw. “I don't know what to say, ok? I try to tell you things and I try to make them meaningful because you lost your dad and I lost my little brother. Do you understand? I try and I try and I try so hard. I want nothing more than to make you a happy kid. But I'm so disappointed. I just look at you... and it makes me so sad. But God. I know you wouldn't do this to me. You wouldn't, right? Come on, Richie. You wouldn't!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Bill flips the front burner all the way up. He spits his gum into the flames. "What do you need, Richie? What do you need to make this alright? What's going to fix you?"

"I–"

"Just tell me. What can I give you?"

"I just need… I need… I need _something."_

"What? A role? You poor thing. Don't you see? This is your role. It’s your whole life. The role you were born to play. Ha! Get it?"

“I–"

“You hungry?”

Richie feels himself nod.

“Of course you are. Don’t worry, though. I’ll cook this time. I’ll take care of you.”

Bill digs through his fridge and pulls out a tub of sour cream.

“How ‘bout this, Rich?”

“I don’t know how long that’s been there. It’s old. It probably expired months ago–“

Bill opens the container. Richie braces himself for a curdled stench. There isn’t one. It smells good. It smells sweet, flowery almost. It smells like–

“Eat it,” Bill says. He grabs a spoon from the drawer and scoops up a thick glob of sour cream. He waves it in front of Richie’s face.

“No, Bill–“

“Eat it, Richie. Come on, I’ll feed it to you.”

Richie opens his mouth and Bill guides the spoon in. It tastes nothing like sour cream. It tastes nothing like food at all. It tastes like lotion. Bill is feeding him _lotion._ Richie thrashes and kicks at him, but it’s too late. Bill pushes it further and further down his throat until Richie can do nothing but suck the lotion off the spoon. Bill pats his head once he’s finished.

“Don’t worry. It’s only $175 per ounce." Bill laughs. He takes the spoon out of Richie’s mouth and throws the tub of La Mer into the sink. He uses the corner of Richie’s towel to wipe his chin. "You know, it's so hard to wean babies and the longer they go on drinking milk, the harder it is to get them off of it. Twenty-five years is a long time to go, Richie. Too long."

Audra, Ben, and Bev return to the kitchen. Bill slams the burner’s knob down. The flame is gone with no sign of ever being there in the first place.

“Any luck?” Bill asks.

“No,” Audra says. “But we did find his phone. Lots of missed calls from Eddie. Hey, Bev? When did you say he was coming?”

“Soon,” Bev says.

“Are we running out of time?”

“Seems like it."

"Shit. Let's go through the living room. Where else could they be?"

"What are… what're… what…" Richie slurs. He falls off the counter. His head cracks against the kitchen floor. He retches up bloody lotion the color of the California sun. He can hardly move his head far enough to keep from choking on it. “Help,” he begs, “I… I think I’m dying.”

“Don't be dramatic,” someone says. Maybe it's all of them. “You're not dying. Mike wouldn't have left you if you were dying, right?"

"I… I don't…"

"Why don't you just ask him?"

“Mike?”

"Come on." A voice. Mike's voice. A heartbroken voice. Wretched. He pulls Richie to his feet.

"Where we goin'... where… where…" The words drip from his broken lips. Mike slings his arm around his neck and Audra comes to his other side and does the same. Even with their help, Richie's feet won't work. Then again, he shouldn't be surprised. He's never made good use of his friends’ support before. The floor slips sideways and the room twirls. They're in his living room now. At least it seems like it should be his living room, or that it _might_ be his living room. His furniture seems fake, almost papery. Everything is wrong. Everything is heavy. Everything is slow. Half-speed reality. Quarter-speed. One eighth. They drag him to the couch and lay him down.

"Ok." Someone. Stan. “Let's scour the room. Look everywhere. Under the couch, between the cushions, cut them open if you have to."

"St-st-st..."

"I'm here, Richie." And Stan _is_ there, but Richie can't see him. His vision is too smeared. There's vaseline between his eyelashes. There's vaseline across his eyelids. There's vaseline in his eyes, goopy and blurry and obtrusive. But he can feel Stan. He can feel his words like hot breath in his ear.

"Why… why're you all here?"

Stan laughs and Richie can feel it in his throat. "It's the last act. Everyone shows up for the last act."

The world swallows him up. It's warm and red and pulsing. A womb. He can only see shapes, fuzzy outlines, fading silhouettes.

"Found them!" Bev shouts far away.

"Found what?" Richie forces the words out.

"The pills, Richie."

"Pills?"

Stan holds up an orange blob. A pill bottle. "Temazepam. Restoril. Benzodiazepines. Sleeping pills. I thought you threw all of these out."

"I did…"

"I guess maybe you thought you did, but then last night you were tearing your house up and you found a forgotten bottle behind your bookshelf. No wonder it’s been there so long undiscovered. It’s not like you actually read. You killed yourself last night, Richie. Time to face facts."

Richie tries to shake his head, but it’s too heavy to move.

"What do you think is going to happen next?" Stan asks. "Well, I'll tell you. Right now, you die in your bed. Tomorrow, Mike calls you, but he doesn't call back when you don't pick up. You don't show up to the hair appointment Mrs. Denninger made for you and then you don't show up to her office to discuss the new offer, but she doesn't come and check on you. She doesn't do welfare checks, remember? The next day, Bill texts us all an update. The baby died; Audra's in critical condition. Severe placental disruption. Right now, you're at the bottom of Bill's list of concerns. But Mike calls you again. He calls twice. Three times. He asks me if he should come over and see if you're okay. I tell him no. The fourth day, he insists. I go with him because I want to be there to yell at you for putting us in a place of false concern again, especially after what happened to Audra. Our key to your house is on my keyring, so I'm the one to let us in.

"And we know just as soon as we walk in. The smell after four days… did you think of the smell? I pretend not to notice it, but I head straight to your room. Mike stops me. He grew up on a farm. He knows the smell of an ugly death. I try and push past him, but he won't let me. He takes me outside and sits me down on your front steps and he picks a flower from one of your rose bushes. He's good at cutting them off without clippers, have you ever seen him do it? He pinches between the thorns and he pushes his thumbnail into the stem, pulls the flower back, and there it is. He gives me the rose and he tells me to pluck out all the petals and organize them by shape and size. He does that sometimes when I'm anxious. It gives me something to do. It makes me think of meeting him for the first time. But it doesn't work this time, of course it doesn't. In fact, it ends up ruining roses for me for years. You know how we put pressed roses on our wedding invitations? I find the one we saved for our album and I burn it. I end up burning a lot of things.

"But that day, it's enough to keep me outside. Mike goes back in and walks into your bedroom and confirms what he already knew. He's very pragmatic about it. He simply covers your face with a blanket. He doesn't touch you. He doesn't say any words. He knows well enough that you're long gone. He comes back out to me and I'm surrounded by a puddle of rose petals because I've ripped five or six flowers apart by then. And so he tells me. I insist on seeing you for myself. I insist on trying to wake you up. Me, Stanley Uris, who is always logical, wants to see if I can wake up a four-day old corpse. Mike won't let me back in the house though and I don't have the energy to fight him. You know when grief hits you so hard and fast that your muscles feel like they've come apart? I can hardly move. Later, I resent him for not letting me see you. I spend months obsessively looking up photos of corpses after a few days of decay. I tear myself apart of what you must have looked like. I try to imagine you bloated with rotting skin, grey eyes, brown fluid coming out of you… it takes me years to be thankful the Mike kept me away.

"A Starline bus stops in front of the gates of your house. I'm sobbing in my husband's arms and a flock of tourists comes by just in time to take pictures. Mike takes me back to our car and he covers me as best as he can, but it doesn't matter. They get some really great shots. We go to the back seat where the windows are tinted and the bus drives away. Then we have to make the phone calls. It's plural because as soon as we call 911, it's a race against time before the world finds out. TMZ scans police radio in L.A. and as soon as they get a sniff of something happening at a famous person's residence, they pounce. Mac Miller was pronounced dead at noon, TMZ reported it three hours later. It would be even shorter for you. The tourists would send in tips about seeing Mike and I coming apart on your front lawn and we know it. So we have to tell the people who loved you before they find out from the vultures. Mike does it for me. He's good at making difficult phone calls. So he calls your mom. It's a short conversation, she doesn't seem to really understand, but there isn't anything we can do about it. So Mike calls Bill. And that conversation… it's so terrible, Richie. I've taken a Xanax by then, but it can't keep me from sobbing. But Bill… God, they have to treat him for shock and he gets his own hospital room for a few hours. I'm the one who says we need to call Eddie. Do you believe that? It doesn't matter whether you do, because it happens either way. But we don't call him. We don't have his number and your phone is still in your house. We can't go back in there. So we skip it. And only then do we call the police.

"The weeks that follow go by in a fugue. All the celebrities who you hated tweet out their condolences. You dominate the newsstand. Your face is everywhere. Digital sales for your movies go through the roof. The press dramatizes the last months of your life. We try to keep everything as private as we can. You have a Catholic funeral. Your mom is your next of kin, and when she finally accepts that you're dead, she insists on it. Bill doesn't come. Audra is just starting to wake up. He has to tell her that her baby is gone and that you are too. Can you imagine waking up in the ICU to news like that? Eddie is there though. Bev and Ben come with him. When the police finally gives us your phone, Mike extends the invitation. But at the funeral, I lose my grip. I start screaming at him. I scream at Mike. I scream at your mom. I blame them all. I try to make them open the casket so I can scream at you. I blame everyone, but most of all, I blame myself.

"But here's the thing: it doesn't ruin our lives. It takes a long time, but we get over it. I come to terms with the fact that it wasn't our fault. We all do. And we move on. And Richie, we were best friends for two decades, but I spend most of my life without you. The world keeps turning."

Richie tries to speak, to say _something,_ but all that comes out of his mouth is a thick gurgle. He tries again. "You said everyone shows up for the last act… what… where's…"

"Eddie?" Stan finishes for him. Richie feels himself nod somewhere far away. "Why, Richie? How is this one person – who you've only known for a few months, who you've only actually met once – so damn _important?"_

"I…"

Stan sighs. "I think I get it now. He was all black eyeshadow and leather pants and he picked you out from the crowd because he thought you looked like you needed someone to be nice to you. I mean really, it was all just too perfect. He was the one guy in the universe who didn't know who you were and he sat down right next to you and made you buy him a drink. And then when he dropped the whole dirty martini act and started acting all cute and quirky, it only made him more attractive. Can there be manic pixie dream boys? I think you found one. Yep. He literally took you by the hand and shook up your rich, suffocating life with his crazy eyes and his effortless charm. I mean, what a free spirit! And then when you woke up and he was aloof, God, it only fanned the flames. Everyone has always given you whatever you want, but even after he found out who you were, he was still just as cool as he could be. And then, and listen up because this is the best part: he made you want to be a better person. How about that? None of us could ever make you want that. I sure couldn’t. God, how I tried! But Eddie was the beautiful guy on the other end of the phone that you could bare your heart to. He existed just to bring you happiness. He never stopped being mysterious and alluring, not to you. It doesn't matter how much of his life he's told you. It doesn’t matter how much he hurts too. Don't you see now? Eddie isn't a real person, not to you. He’s a concept.”

Richie makes a noise. A whine. A cry. An echo.

“You know, your stupid, fucked up mind has been in Hollywood too long. I think I've seen this movie before. All of this, the pain, the suffering, the tortured artist persona… it isn't unique. Do you understand? Your sadness doesn't make you unique. It's time to stop building your personality on it. Or well, it would have been time." Stan puts his hand on Richie's cheek. "Before you die, your brain activity surges. You know, you are just so… wasted. That's it. You're wasted. Welcome to the surge, Richard."

Richie's vision clears just long enough to watch everything fall into abstraction. Stars and lines and dots and genitalia and crazy eyes. Constellations and ciphers in love with a boy. A concept. Eddie.

 

The third time Richie wakes up, it is dark and he is alone. He pushes back the vomit-crusted sheets, knocks over the bottle of Bailey's, and runs to the bookshelf in his living room. It isn't out of place. There aren't pills behind it and there's no sign that there ever was. He throws up again, but it's maybe it's just the last of the booze. It's got to be. 

After all, he's wasted.

 


	5. The Thing About Irreversibility

# The Thing About Irreversibility

Richie sits very stiffly on what is meant to be a very comfortable chair in front of a very shrewd-looking woman holding a very important looking clipboard. It’s all so very very.

"Why are you here?" the woman asks.

"I had a dream," he says.

"A dream?"

"Yes, a dream. It was all kinds of freaky. Like my friend was trying to drown me and then my other friend was force-feeding me lotion, it was this whole big thing. It was the type of dream that either means that you're trapped inside a Stephen King novel or that you need immediate therapy."

"Well, that’s certainly something."

"Lady, you don't understand–"

"Don't call me lady."

"Right. Sorry. Mrs? Miss? Ms?"

"Doctor."

Richie lets out an audible _oof._ This could be going better. This morning he typed 'i need a therapist what do i do who do i see help me pls L.A. region only' into Google. He chose the first person who could book him for today. Dr. Wilson was the lucky winner. He apologizes again and starts fiddling with a paperclip he found in his pocket. His hair is tied into a bun on the top of his head with a couple of rubber bands and his nails are blacked out with Sharpie. Richie's planning on calling the look 'office supply chic.' He gives Dr. Wilson a smile that's supposed to be charming but is probably more disconcerting.

"Why are you really here?" Dr. Wilson asks. "Because I know better than to believe that it was just the dream that brought you into my office."

"You're good," he says.

"What else is going on?"

He inhales sharply. He blows the breath out. He hums. "Well, uh, first, I'm very famous, as you can see. I've been working since I was four years old. I can't go out in public without being recognized. About five different people took pictures of me walking into your office, so that's probably gonna be on Twitter soon, or they'll try blackmailing me. Oh! I actually did just get blackmailed which has kind of led to me spiraling, so add that on. What else? I started using cocaine when I was thirteen and abused it with a ton of other stuff until three years ago. I binge drink sometimes. I have this chronic overwhelming fear that I'm empty inside. I'm pretty sure I've been dealing with depression on and off for as long as I can remember. Uh, I'm bisexual and have intrusive homophobic thoughts. My mom and I are distant. My dad died in an accident when I was small. I've put my friends into caretaker roles for the past five months and then yesterday I think I ruined things with them. I ruined things with… there's this… And…" Richie breathes. "I tried to kill myself a few years ago and I told the people I love that it was an accident. Then, last night… well… I don't know. Did I give you enough to start with?"

"Hold on," Dr. Wilson says. Her pencil couldn't keep up. "I like to use first appointments mainly for introductory purposes, and you've given me quite the list."

"Shit. Sorry."

"There's no need to apologize."

Richie straightens the paperclip and starts to pull at the plastic coating. "I'm here because of my best friend. I have issues because of all the things I just said, but the reason I'm seeing you today is because of him. He's been wanting me to get help for my mental health for years." Richie runs his thumb over the split in his lip. "I'd always refused."

"What changed?"

"Eddie."

"And who's Eddie?"

"I need you to help me figure that out."

Dr. Wilson writes something on her clipboard. Richie tries to ignore the itchy feeling of being analyzed. She looks up at him with piercing eyes.

"I think due to the severity of some of the things you told me," she says, "it's best that we jump right in so I can gauge whether or not you're in crisis. What happened the other day?"

And so he tells her. He starts with Eddie. How they met and how Richie's first thought the morning after was of Eddie going to the press. How they fell in love as strangers and how everyone in his life warned him that the relationship was a bad idea. How Bill told him to be wary of being blackmailed. How he and Eddie went through a rough patch before confessing their love for one another. How things were going to work out. How Eddie was going to come to L.A. And then he tells her about waking up to see the messages from Mrs. Denninger. He tells her about how it felt like all his worst fears had been confirmed and how he acted on that fear without a second thought. He tells her just how much he loves Eddie. He tells her about the awful voicemail he left him. About how he ruined it all.

He tells her about finding out the truth about the blackmailers. About what Mrs. Denninger said. About how she degraded Eddie. About how she's kept him in the closet for years. About how he's kept _himself_ in the closet for years. About Adam Sandler and the scene in the movie. About how for just a moment when Mrs. Denninger jabbed at the photo of Eddie and called him _someone like this_ with such vitriolic disgust, Richie was _ashamed_ of Eddie and his makeup and his leather pants and his high voice.

He tells her about Stan and how much it hurt that he believed that Richie'd done the drugs. He tells her that Stan has hated Eddie since Richie first ran off and met him. He tells her that when Stan wasn't ignoring Eddie's existence, he called him _the cab driver_ or _your little friend_ and couldn't be bothered to hide his sharp critical tone. He tells her about how all of these things have built up over the past few months and buried themselves under Richie's skin. He tells her about how Stan knows him better than anyone else and how he has always been there for him and how that made it hurt so much worse when he said that Eddie was just another symptom. He tells her how Stan wanted him to be in a facility. And then he tells her about how he lashed out. How he said all the things he knew would hurt Stan the worse. How he pushed Stan. How Stan hit him.

He tells her about calling Bill. About how he told him that he couldn't _just fucking leave._ About how he was so consumed with anger and guilt and fear and hate that he didn't stop to consider the urgent undertone in Bill's voice. He tells her about Audra. About the baby. About how he still hasn't heard from them. About how he should have been there for his friend and that he just wasn't.

He tells her about going back to his own house. About being the alone. The blood on his chin. The uncontrollable tears. The urge to put his hand in the garbage disposal. The urge to die. How beautiful his own death seemed to be in that moment. How cinematic. He tells her he’d been working on himself. About the book. About the progress he threw away.

He tells her about Mike showing up and taking care of his lip despite knowing what Richie had said. And he tells her about what happened next. The booze. The destruction. The pills. Maybe.

He tells her about waking up scared and confused. He tells her about finding his phone under his couch this morning with fifteen missed calls.

"I haven't called him back. I haven't talked to anyone," Richie finishes. "Stan doesn't want to hear from me. I don't know if I'm supposed to give Bill space or ask him what's happened. And Eddie… it's been over twenty-four hours now, Dr. Wilson. I keep letting things get worse and worse because I don't know how to fix them. I don't know if I can. I just… I hate irreversibility."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just that I can't go back."

"Back to where?" It's the wrong question. Dr. Wilson tries again. "Back to what?"

Back to what. Back to what. Back to what. _Backtowhat._ Back to last night. Back to yesterday morning. Back to New York. Back to Bill's lips on his cheeks. Back to the whatever caused the beginning of the decay of his friendship with Stan. Back to hiring Mrs. Denninger. Back to dropping out of school. Back to Bazooka Gum. Back to having a dad. Back to being clean and pure and fresh and new. Richie Tozier tumbles through time and snags on all the points in his life that have changed him for better or for worse and he's beginning to fear that there isn't a difference. All these things have made him himself and that's a damn shame because _he does not know who that is._

"Back to what?" Richie laughs a humorless laugh. "Back to the womb."

"Do you really think your whole life has been a mistake?"

"I… I've just messed up so much. It isn't just my friendships, it isn't just Eddie, it's my career, it's my health, it's my happiness, it's my identity. My life was ruined yesterday and by what? Blackmailers? A misunderstanding? Deep down I know this would have happened whether I'd gotten those messages from Mrs. Denninger or not. Everything was about to change. Bill's moving to Vermont. Stan and Mike were going to get sick of me. And Eddie… he was coming to L.A., I begged him to come because I knew he was about to break things off. I'm scared that as soon as he comes to see me, he'll see who I really am and he'll be done with me. Only now, it doesn't matter, because I ruined it. You see now? The threat of the end led me to bring it about on my own because this way it should be better. This way the universe isn't stealing from me because I'm stealing from myself. There is something pathological within me, Dr. Wilson. There's some great and terrible thing inside of me that is addicted to my own destruction. Things are going well? Here, let me ruin them before they turn sour. It's the 'you can't fire me, I quit' mentality."

Dr. Wilson studies him for a moment. She gestures to the paperclip.

"Can I see that?" she asks. Richie hands it over. It takes a moment or two, but she bends it back in shape. She hands it back. "Of all the things you see in the world as being irreversible, how many can actually be fixed? You can't reverse the bad things that have happened to you or the bad things you've done to others, but I think you'll be surprised by how often you can mend them. You will have always unbent that paperclip and me having bent it back doesn’t change that fact. But just look at it, it can hold paper again. I think you have a very harsh view of yourself, Richard. You're extremely analytical."

"Analytical? Me?" He knocks on the side of his head. "It's plastic all the way through, doc."

"As people, we can recognize when we do bad things. We can learn why we do them. And then we can reverse the compulsive mechanisms that lead us to do them. Only then can we be better. You recognize that you've hurt people and you feel guilty for it. That’s step one. The way things happened yesterday didn’t happen because you're stubborn or were being malicious. I see someone who honestly wants to be better. I see someone who wants to fix things.”

Richie shakes his head. "I just don’t know if I can."

"You can't know that without trying. You owe Stan an apology. Give it to him. You need to show Bill that you're there for him in the same way that he's been there for you. So do it. And you need to make a decision about Eddie."

“A decision?”

“I can’t tell you who he is to you. Looking back and having told me all the things you just did, how do you feel about him?”

"I love him. I know how it sounds. I know why my friends were concerned. I know all of it, but I still love him. I've never loved anyone the way I've loved him. But I'm scared. Am I idealizing him? Is Stan right to say that he’s just another symptom?"

"Are you looking for my blessing to be in a romantic relationship with Eddie?"

"Answering a question with another question isn't nice."

"It's sort of what therapists do."

Richie hums. He's about to start unbending the paperclip again, but he stops.

"Above all else,” Dr. Wilson says, “you need to make things right with yourself. You have a tendency towards catastrophic thinking. Why does everything seem so permanent to you? It is natural to be anxious about change but to you, it seems nearly cataclysmic. You are extraordinarily wary about abandonment and betrayal and above all else, ruination. I want to see where this pattern of thinking begins. Can you tell me about your first broken relationship?"

"With who?”

“The first person who let you down. The person who was supposed to take care of you but was unable to.”

“I'm conflicted about my mother. Black and white at the same time. It's like T.V. static.”

"I wasn't referring to your mother."

"Then who?"

"Let's talk about your dad."

  


Richie buys a one-way ticket to New York when he gets home. He needs to leave town. He needs to make things right with Eddie. He needs to make things right with himself.

Which means he has to start by doing things he doesn't want to do.

Things like calling his mom.

She answers just as he's about to chicken out and hang up.

"Richie? Sweetie?" Her voice is like… well, what is it like? A familiarity? A coldness? Richie isn't sure. He wasn’t lying about what he said to Dr. Wilson. When it comes to his mother, he's caught in the thorny woods of ambivalence. T.V static was right. Black and white at the same time. Not grey. Never grey. "Richie, are you there?"

"I'm here," his mouth says before his brain has a chance to catch up and back out.

"Why are you calling?"

"Does a son have to have a reason to call his mom?"

"If he's you, then yes. You haven't called me since last Christmas, and I know the only reason you did it then was because of Stanley."

He throws it right back. "You haven't called me either."

Maggie is quiet for a long time, long enough for Richie to have to check to make sure the call didn't drop, but he does not prompt her, he makes them both sit in the uncomfortable silence.

"I didn't think you would want to hear from me," she finally says. "I doubted you would have even picked up the phone. Would you have?"

"I don't know."

She's quiet again. She has a way of parsing her words that Richie did not inherit. "I'm glad you called. It's good to hear your voice. I love you."

Richie sniffles. He’s holding back tears before he can realize it.

"Richie, dear, what's wrong? Are you crying?"

"No," he chokes out. "No, I'm alright."

"Richie, you're allowed to cry. I need you to know that it's okay to do that. Never try to hide it from me. I love you, hun. I hope you know that I do." There's something strong in her voice, something urgent, and something scared. She's right, they don't call each other, and now he has out of the blue and he's just about to bawl. It's got to be more than worrying. "What happened?"

"I… I, uh, I did call you for a reason. I need to ask you about something."

"What is it?"

"Did Dad love me?"

"Richie…"

"Before he died… he loved me, right? Please just tell me that he loved me and that I loved him. I know that it hurts you to talk about him, Mom, but I need you to. I need… I need closure. We can't keep ignoring it."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do! You never talked about him when I was growing up and whenever I tried to, you would change the topic. I don't even know how he died, he was just there one day and gone the next. You told me there was an accident, but Mom, I don't even know what that means." It's a half-truth. He's scared that he does know what it means. He's scared that he understands exactly what 'accident' is code for. He’s scared that it’s taken him this long to realize. When Dr. Wilson asked about his father, he had nothing to say and everything to consider. He stares at one of the reassembled pages of his book. _Rejecting reality leads to pain and pain leads to misery._ "How did Dad die?"

"He had an accident."

"Just say it, Mom."

"Your dad loved you, Richie. He loved you so much." She lets out a little cry, or maybe it's a laugh. "He would work all day and come home exhausted, but as soon as he saw you there waiting for him by the window, he would just light up. He would bounce you on his knee and read you books for hours after work. You used to love it when he'd read to you. He'd do all the characters' voices and you would just absolutely shriek with laughter and clap your little hands together. I’ve never seen a child love his father so much.

"But your dad just had this sadness in him and sometimes it overtook him. Even when we first met, he'd go through days or sometimes weeks where he was just overwhelmed by it. He hid it so well, I didn't even notice at first. He still took me out and went to work, but it was like just a little part of him was gone during those times, like the little light behind his eyes had turned off.  It always came back on, though. I thought that the sadness would go away once and for all when we got married, and it did for a little bit, but it came back and then it started getting worse. Sometimes he'd be down for months at a time. I loved him so much, but it frustrated me when I couldn't make him better. It frustrated him too. He would say, 'I've got you, I've got my job, I've got money, I've got everything I could want, but I just can't seem to get my mind screwed in right.' And then when you were born, I thought it really would stop. I prayed that it would. And the first two years we had you, it didn't come up at all. But a little after your third birthday, he started getting hit with it again.

"It was worse then than it ever had been before. It started to come out as anger. He'd yell at waiters if they brought out the wrong order. He'd throw his keyboard if his computer so much as glitched. He'd scream on the phone all the time. It was embarrassing to be around him when he was like that. Worse, you were so young I was scared that you'd absorb all that anger. I didn't want you to grow up thinking it was okay to act like that. He was just so angry all the time and it got harder and harder to love him. He started snapping at his partners at work and ruining all his relationships. People were wondering why I stuck around when he got like that. And every time you fell down and scraped your knee or ran into a wall and got a bruise, people would just look at your dad like he'd been the one to do it to you. But Richie, I swear to God he never laid a finger on you.

"I'd catch him crying when he thought I couldn't hear him and that hurt more than anything. He never wanted me to see him cry. It was different when we first started seeing each other, but the longer he went on dealing with that sadness, the more ashamed of it he was. I think that's why he was so angry. He just couldn't deal with being sad anymore. I was scared for him. Seeing him implode on himself like that… I was just at a loss. I had Father Fischer talk to him, but it only made things worse. I didn't think things would ever get better.

"But then they _did_ get better. It happened all at once. He stopped taking his blood pressure medicine and he said that that was what had made him so irritable. I said that it was a bad idea and that they couldn't possibly be the cause, but he said it was alright as long as he held onto the pills and kept picking up his prescription just in case he needed them later. And pretty soon I forgot about it because he perked up so quickly. A few months after that, he took time off from work and we went on a vacation, just our little family. It was like we got the old Went back because the man he was when he was sad wasn't him. Your dad was the kindest, funniest, most genuine person I've ever known and I'd almost forgotten what that was like.

"We rented this little house right on the beach for a whole week and it was just perfect. We would wake up at nine or ten or so and take you to the beach. I would sit on the sand and read or sunbathe or just watch the two of you play. He'd show you how to build sandcastles or he'd bring you out into the water. I always got nervous when he did that, but he never let go of you, not even for a second. After a few hours, we'd walk back to the house and he'd hose the sand off of the bottom of your feet and give you a bath. We'd lounge around the house for a while, but then we'd go right back on the beach to watch the sunset. Then he'd cook us all dinner and get you ready for bed. Things got so much better between the two of us, too. We would stay up after putting you down for the night and he would just hold me and tell me how much he loved me. And if you woke up before morning, which you always seemed to do, he'd be the one to take you back to bed. It was nice having him do all that. He was under so much stress at home, so it was the first time he was getting to be the dad he always wanted to be. That's what he told me. It made you so happy, too. You'd follow him around the house and try to copy the way he walked. Even as young as you were, you would joke around with him. It was uncanny how similar you two were. You had your birthday while we were there and it was just the cutest thing, you said you wanted your gift to be for us to move down there for good. I secretly wanted that too, even though I knew that things didn't work that way. But could you blame me? It was the best week of my life. And then we came back home and..."

"And what, Mom? What did he do?"

"He told me he was going to meet one of the other doctors from his practice to get a drink and talk about what'd happened while we'd been away. He told me that we should go to bed without him because he'd be coming home late. He'd just be at the bar, he said."

"But he didn't go to the bar."

"No. Your dad checked himself into a hotel, wrote a note on the stationary pad that said he loved us both so much and that he was so sorry, and then he swallowed nearly a hundred blood pressure pills. He hadn't stopped taking them because they were making him irritable. He'd stopped because he was saving them up. He'd been planning on doing it the whole time. All while he was playing with you on the beach or holding me at night, he knew exactly what he was going to do as soon as we got home. He looked me in the eyes and told me how much he loved me and how sorry he was for the past year and how he was going to make things better and he knew."

"Why did you never tell me?" Richie says, his voice thin and wavering and wet. Thick and powerful and damned ugly tears rush down his cheeks. He lets them.

"How do you tell a little boy that his daddy killed himself?"

The silence hangs heavier than ever. There are a lot of things Richie could say to his mother. He wants to say them too. He wants her to know that as bad as losing his dad had been, having the truth hidden has almost been worse. He wants her to know that he's been searching his whole life not just for a surrogate father, but for a surrogate mother, too. He wants her to know that if she'd just told him _,_ then maybe he wouldn’t feel so empty inside. And then he realizes that he wants to say these things not because he wants for himself to feel better, but because he wants for her to hurt. So of all the things he could say, he settles on this:

"I love you, Mom," his voice is tight but true. He loves her and he resents her. Black and white at the same time. The wounds of their relationship are still there, but now, for the first time, Richie can see the white gaining territory. He can see promise.

"I love you, too, Richie," Maggie says. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, Mom." He wipes his eyes. "Yeah, I'll be okay. I, uh, I messed some things up yesterday, but I'm going to fix them. I'm going to leave California for a while, maybe a long time. I've got some business in New York."

"Alright." She pauses. "And Richie, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for a lot of things. I could have been a better mother to you."

"I... it's okay, Mom. You did your best.” A silence. “Would it be alright if I called you next week? Maybe we could make it a regular thing, you and I talking."

"Yes," she says. "I'd like that."

"Alright. I'll talk to you then. Bye, Mom."

"Goodbye, Richie."

Richie hangs up the phone and stands very still for a very long time. And he breathes. He lets himself exist. He lets himself float.

 

Richie cancels the hair appointment. He decided that he likes his hair long and that he's going to keep it that way. He decides not to take the BMW commercials because no self-respecting Oscar winner should be in car commercials, goddamnit. He decides that he doesn't play with blackmailers. He doesn't pay them off for the pictures. Well, he does pay them off for a picture, singular. Just the last one. He doesn't care if the others get out, he doesn't care if his name and the word 'cocaine' is trending on Twitter by tomorrow morning, but he does care if Eddie's name gets dragged in the mud with his. And so it's just that last picture that is put under the lock and key of a $50,000 NDA. It saved him two-and-a-half hundred grand, not that he gives a flying fuck.

He cleans his house. Sure, he uses stove-top cleaner on the toilet and Windex on the granite floor and he has to open all the windows and leave the house for a few minutes after accidentally mixing bleach with ammonia, but he does it. He tapes back what can be salvaged of his book and tosses the rest. He gives his washing machine its inaugural cycle to clean the vomit out of his sheets.

He goes through his finances, too. He doesn't understand much of it, but he does understand that Stan was right when he said he was richer than Forbes' estimate. Much richer. He's already started to spend it. He's placed some orders, talked to some people, filled out a few forms. He has a plan.

So he packs a bag. Shirts. Pants. His now thrice reassembled Oscar. He understands it now. The Hollywood bullshit. The 'I'm okay' bullshit. Gold-plated bullshit. The award is bullshit.

But it's his bullshit.

He can send for the rest of his shit later. Hell, he can buy all new shit in New York. It's five in the afternoon now and his flight is at three in the morning. He has somewhere to go first. Just as he's loading his suitcase into his car, his phone rings.

It's Bill.

"Hello?" Richie says. It's dumb. It's not enough. It's all he can think to say.

"Richie."

"That's me."

"Audra had the b-baby.”

"Is… is…"

“It happened while I was on the flight. I… God, I m-missed it, Richie.”

“Bill, you got there just as soon as you could.”

“It was a rough delivery. They did the c-section. They say it saved Audra’s life. There was something wrong with the placenta… I’m sorry I'm so scattered right now.”

“It’s okay, Bill. You’re okay. What happened?”

“They, uh, they did the c-section and Audra’s mom said they took the baby right away in a p-p-plastic bag.”

“Oh, God… Bill…”

“It was to conserve heat. They wrap babies that small in plastic to keep their body heat in.”

Richie can’t help but laugh, beautiful and relieved. “A plastic bag,” he breathes. “Fucking hell.”

“They took her away and intubated her and put her in an incubator and attached all sorts of wires to her. We haven’t even be able to touch her yet, but she’s alive.”

“She?” Richie asks, breathless.

“My daughter. Madison Denbrough Phillips.”

"Your daughter. Fucking hell. Fucking hell! You're a fucking dad! That kid has fire in her veins! Not to set expectations too high or anything, but she’s going to take on the whole world! I hope you realize that. She’s a fucking fighter.”

"Listen, Richie, we aren't out of the w-w-woods yet. The doctors told us that Madison’s prognosis is a seventy percent chance of survival. They say it’s really good for a micro preemie like her, but Jesus, it doesn’t feel g-g-good, you know? All the things they told us could g-go wrong… infections, intestinal ruptures, blood vessel leaks in the brain… it… it’s scary. They said that she’ll be in the NICU for a few months, at least until what would have been her due date. And God, the NICU is hard. Audra and I have been right next to Madison’s incubator every moment they’ve let us, but it’s a hard environment to be in.”

Richie looks at the boarding pass resting on his suitcase. He hesitates. And then he asks, “Do you want me to come be with you guys?”

“No. At least not yet. We want you all to come out and meet her soon, though. Just in case… we'll j-just leave it as a just in case. Will you come next week?”

“Of course, Bill. Of course, I will."

"Thank you, Richie."

"And Bill, I need to let you know that I’m sorry for what I said the other night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before I knew what was happening, I got mad at you for leaving town without telling me.”

“It… I didn’t even realize you were mad.”

“I was rude to you.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“And that’s why I’m sorry. It wasn’t a unique event. I act like that a lot. I can be sort of an asshole but I promise I’m going to be better. It’s the Richie Tozier Apology Tour and you’ve got front row tickets. Congratulations.”

“Well, your apology is accepted.” Bill laughs, God bless him. “I feel like I shouldn’t be laughing right now.”

“It’s going to be okay, Bill. Try not to get all caught up in everything that could go wrong. When Eddie was born, the doctors didn’t think he’d make it. They told his parents to prepare for the worst. He was really underdeveloped when he was born. He was premature too, I think. He only weighed fifteen hundred and fifty-three grams.”

“You know his birth weight? In exact grams?”

“I guess I do. I know a lot of things about him.”

“Does Eddie have any health problems now? I know… I know preemies can have trouble for a long time. The doctors have warned us about that too.”

“No," Richie says with some pride. Eddie Kaspbrak is not sick. Eddie Kaspbrak is not sick. Sometimes late at night, Richie would repeat that to him on the phone. A reminder. "He’s healthy. Healthier than me. He was always behind on the growth charts as a kid and he grew up to be pretty short, but it’s fucking adorable.”

“You know,” Bill says, “I just realized that I never gave you your advice.”

“What do you mean?”

“A few months ago when it was just the two of us at my place before I told you about the pregnancy, you asked me for advice because you said Eddie was acting weird. I never ended up giving it to you.”

“I actually could still use some. I messed some things up with Eddie.”

"What happened?"

“I… it’s a long story. I don't want to make this conversation about me and my problems, not with what you have going on right now."

“It’s fine, Richie. I needed to get my mind off things for a while. And I would tell you if it wasn’t fine, you know that. I’ve never been exactly scared to call you out on your bullshit. What happened?”

“Pish posh.”

“What? Who says ‘pish posh’?”

“People who want to redirect a conversation but don’t know how to be suave about it, i.e. me. Look, I messed things up with Eddie. There was this really terrible misunderstanding where I jumped to conclusions and I left a really awful message on his phone. But I’m going to fix things.”

“By going to New York?”

“I want to apologize in person, but that isn’t the only reason I'm going.”

“What do you mean? Did you get a role?”

“No, not a role.”

“Then what?”

“It’s a secret.”

“For fuck’s sake, why?”

“Because I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it.”

“That’s reassuring.”

"All you need to know is that I’m going to be in New York for a while. I’ll tell you and Audra all the details in a few months when you three are settled into your new home.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. And it’ll be good for me to be closer to you guys right now. Uncle Richie can be there in under three hours for all your babysitting needs.”

“Godfather.”

“What?”

“We don’t want you to just be Madison’s honorary uncle. We were going to ask you closer to the due date, but here we are. Will you be her godfather?”

“Me? Are you sure you don’t want someone more… I don’t know…”

“We want it to be someone we love and trust. We want it to be someone smart and empathetic. We want it to be someone that can help our daughter through the hardest times in her life because he’s survived hard times too. We’ve thought about this, Richie. We want it to be you. Will you do it?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it. Holy shit. You’re really serious?”

“Of course I am.”

"Then by all means, you can count on me, Dadbrough."

"What?"

"You know, your last name is Denbrough and you're a dad. It sounded a lot cooler in my head."

“That’s the only thing you’re going to call me from now on, isn’t it?”

“You know me so well.”

"Alright, Richie. I've got to go now, but let me just give you one piece of advice, ok? Might make me feel wise."

"Ok, Dadbrough. Shoot."

"If you love Eddie, you've got to really love him. Some people fall in love with mirrors. They don't fall in love with the person, they fall in love with how that person makes them feel about themselves. Before I met Audra, I dated my old agent for a while. She made me feel smart. She made me feel important. I finally realized that the love I felt for her was really the love she made me feel for myself. The relationship crumbled because I took more than I gave. But I learned from it. Audra makes me love myself too, but I make her love herself in return. Love is a partnership. I think a lot of people know that, but it takes experience to understand it. Audra didn't make me a better person by softening my edges and I didn't make her a better person by helping her get clean. We supported each other as we helped ourselves. To love someone they need to show you who you are. To have someone love you back you need to do it for them too. Do you understand that?"

Richie lets it sit for a minute. Lets himself think. Lets himself digest.

"Yes," he says. "I understand."

  


Stan's car isn’t in his driveway. Sure, it’s probably in his garage. It usually is. Stan’s anal about a lot of things and his vintage Mercedes is no exception. When he’s in for the night, it’s carefully covered with a canvas tarp and stored in the garage. But right now it's only six, and Stan always has his car in the driveway in the early evenings. He tries to act cool about it, but everyone knows that he likes to show it off. When he gets home from work, Stan parks right in the driveway next to Mike’s car and lets his sedan bask in the setting sun for a few hours before bringing it in. Not this evening, apparently. Richie pulls up to where Stan’s car should be.

He gets out of his car and knocks on the front door, waits a few seconds, and knocks again. He starts to think that maybe Stan and Mike went out to dinner, but then Mike is at the door before Richie can head back to the car.

"Why are you here?" Mike asks. There isn’t malice in his voice, per se, but there is a healthy dose of exhaustion.

"Oh haven't you heard? It's the Richie Tozier Apology Tour." Mike doesn’t laugh. Richie fidgets nervously. "So, uh, where's the Sedanley?”

“The what?”

“You know, Stanley’s sedan. Sedanley. It sounded a lot cooler in my head. I think I come up with portmanteaus when I'm nervous. Is that a thing? I think it might be a thing.”

“Stan’s at temple.”

Richie lets out half a laugh. “He doesn’t go to temple. Stanny may be a Jew, but he isn’t a very good one. The last time he went to temple was when he still lived with his parents.”

“You’re wrong. Stan doesn’t go regularly, but he’s been a handful of times since we’ve been married. He goes when he has something to pray for.”

The very notion of Stan praying is odd to Richie. Not long after his Bar Mitzvah, Stan decided he that he wasn’t nearly as devoted as his parents would like. The word he used was skeptic, but Richie always took that as a sugar coating. When Stan told his folks, his dad has to leave the house and take a drive to calm down, while his mom quietly sighed a resigned, _‘Questioning is the nature of our people.’_ Sure Stan’s still a cultural Jew, but praying? Richie’s a little shocked and a little hurt that he’s been kept out of the loop. It suddenly occurs to Richie that there’s all sort of things Mike might know about Stan that he does not. And then there are things Eddie knows about Richie that Stan doesn't know. Once, Stan and Richie's lives intersected so deeply that there was no one who knew the other better. Richie isn't quite sure how to feel now that that's no longer.

“Can I… can I wait for him to get back?”

“Richie, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

“Right. Yeah. Needing space and all of that. Sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I just… can you tell him I came by? I have some things to tell him. I have to apologize.” _I don't want to have to do it over the phone,_ he almost says.

Mike looks at him with tired, heavy eyes. They soften. “Come in, Richie. But if he isn’t ready to talk, you have to leave without a fight, okay?”

“Okay.”

Mike leads him into the living room. Richie sits down and fiddles with his thumbs. It’s awkward. Richie hates that he’s made it this way.

“I, uh, I’ve got to apologize to you too, Mike," Richie says. "I shouldn’t have asked you to stay at my place last night. For what it’s worth, you were right. I was okay.” He doesn’t mention what happened after Mike left. He doesn't think he'll tell Stan either. He's going to exercise this newfound distance. Is it a lapse in closeness? Or is it a preservation of closeness?

“It’s okay, Richie. I’ve got no ill will against you.”

 _Don’t you think that you should?_ Richie wants to say. “Thanks, Mike," he says instead. "Thanks for being a friend.”

Mike smiles. He claps Richie on the back.

“Do you want something to drink?” Mike offers.

“Water, please.”

“Just water? I’m getting myself a beer.”

“None for me. I’m going to take a break from drinking for a while, I think.”

Mike looks at him funny for a second but doesn’t say anything. No sooner than when he leaves the room does Stan come walking in the front door.

“Why are you here?” Stan says. His voice and face are equally unreadable. It’s one of Stan’s many talents. He’s been known to play a mean game of poker. Richie has the feeling that that might be what’s actually happening now.

“It’s the Richie Tozier Apology Tour,” Richie says. Stan doesn’t laugh either. “Look Stan, don’t get mad at Mike for letting me in.”

“I’m not mad at Mike. I’m mad at you.”

“Right. Good!”

Mike comes back with the drinks. He clears his throat.

“Richie wants to talk," Mike says. "If you don’t want to, he promised he’d leave without a word.”

“Actually, I think you said without a fight–" Mike shoots daggers at him. “I’ll go if you want me to,” Richie resigns quietly.

Stan looks away from him. He walks up to Mike and whispers into his ear. Mike kisses him. Then Mike puts down the drinks, grabs his car keys, and leaves.

Stan sits down next to Richie but doesn’t look at him. He carefully removes the pins in his hair and puts them with his kippah on the coffee table. It's strange seeing Stan with a kippah. It makes him look somehow younger. It's like when they were growing up. It brings back memories of Andrea Uris' cooking and Stan's childhood bedroom and all the nights Richie spent over there, sometimes affording himself the fantasy of being part of their family, sometimes denying himself. The last time Stan wore a kippah was at his wedding. Well, it was the last time Richie saw him wearing one, at least.

“So, uh, you were at temple?” Richie says, not knowing what else to do. "I didn't know you believed in God now."

Stan sighs. “I don’t know if I do or not, but I do know that Bill and Audra are dealing with something big and terrible and I can't do anything to help them with it. Praying helps me cope with that."

"Listen Stan, I need to apologize to you. I need you to know how sorry–"

"April 20th, 2010,” Stan says.

"What?"

"It's the day I fell out of love with you."

"Stan–"

"Richie, can you just let me talk?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“A few months earlier, I told you how I felt about you and you turned me down. You were really nice about it, Richie. Do you remember?”

Richie isn’t sure if he’s supposed to answer, so he just nods.

“I’d never heard you be so nice before,” Stan continues. “You aren’t a mean-hearted person, Richie, but you’re not always that considerate, especially back then. But when I told you, you didn't laugh or try to turn it into the joke the way you always do with things like that. I told you how dumb I felt and you told me that it was okay and that it didn't change things between us. You said that you were a mess and that one day I would find a guy who would love me the way I deserved to be loved. Back then, I didn't believe you. And Richie, God, I wish I could say that I stopped having feelings for you right then and there, but you were just so _nice._ It made me love you more."

"What…" Richie stops, unsure of what he's supposed to say.

"What changed?" Stan asks.

Richie nods. "I don't remember anything bad happening on April 20th eight years ago," he says. "I don't remember anything from that day at all. Hell, I don't think I remember anything from that whole Spring." He wants to laugh. He doesn't. He wants to be nice. He tries.

"I know you don't, Richie," Stan says. "You were off the deep end. You'd just turned seventeen, but you were in clubs every single night. And why shouldn't you have been? People let you do whatever you wanted. You'd been going out since you were thirteen, for fuck's sake. But I don't know what it was about 2010, maybe it was because you were so close to turning eighteen and getting out of your contract with your old agent, maybe it was the idea of getting to turn your fame into superstardom… maybe you just were coming apart. I was beginning to forget what normal-sized pupils looked like on you. But then again, you weren't spending all that much time around me anyway. You had your fucking entourage back then. God, how I hated the way you would say it, _entourage,_ like you were a rock star. You acted like you were. You were blowing through all your money in the way only child stars seem to be able to do. The people you kept around either wanted your cash, your fame, or to get in your pants. It's a fucking miracle you didn't get anyone pregnant. It's a fucking miracle you didn't die."

Richie doesn't think about those days a whole lot. Richie doesn't remember those days a whole lot.

"I hadn't seen you all month until that night. You called me at three in the morning and said that you were outside of Whisky A Go Go and that you needed to be picked up. You sounded hysterical on the phone, but I couldn't tell if you were laughing or crying. You probably didn't know either. I was there in fifteen minutes. Your friends were gone and the parking lot was empty except for you and this woman who looked like she was in her forties, maybe older. The two of you were smoking something. I'm really not sure what it was, but it definitely wasn't weed. It looked like PCP, maybe crack. I think you were smoking crack, Richie. I got out of the car and grabbed you hard enough for you to drop the pipe. The lady started laughing and you were talking all about how much you loved her and how the two of you were going to get married. You were so geeked out of your mind that you didn't even realize that you'd called me.

"I got you into the car and buckled your seat belt while you were screaming out the window at the woman and she was just laughing at you the whole time. I finally got us going and you pulled out my CD book, which was always filled with your fucking CDs. You put in _Led Zeppelin II_ and told me to drive up and down Sunset Strip until the album was over. I did it, too. I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't sure just where I was going to take you after that. You were already living on your own by then and you wouldn't have let me take you to your mom's place. I thought about taking you to my parents, but you know how strict my dad is, I wasn't sure he'd let you in the way you were acting. I didn't know what the hell I was going to do. So I just drove and let you play that stupid album. You turned it all the way up, rolled down the window, stuck your feet out, and started singing along, although it was really more screaming than singing. When "What Is And What Should Never Be" came on, you swung your feet back in and put your head out there instead. You started clawing at your seatbelt and as soon as you got it unfastened, you had nearly your whole upper half out of the car. I told you to get back in, but you just started yelling at me to go faster. I was trying to look for somewhere to pull over, but there were cars all around me and fucking Robert Plant was singing so loud that I couldn't think, but I knew you were just about to fall out of the car whether you meant to or not. So I held the steering wheel as steady as I could and took my eyes off the road just long enough to grab a handful of your hair and pull you back into the car. I turned the music off and drove us up into the canyons.

"You were coming down by the time the car stopped. I thought you would start freaking out when you realized you didn't have any uppers left, but you just sat up in your seat as still as could be, staring out the dashboard. The fun was finally over for you and your eyes looked clear and sad and empty. You took your glasses off and got out of the car. I rushed after you, but you weren't going anywhere. You started throwing up all over yourself and shaking so hard I was scared that you were convulsing.

"I couldn't believe that it was you, Richie. You'd been getting into worse and worse crap, but God… I mean you were my best friend. You were the kid with the stupid glasses and the dumb jokes. You were the guy who was so nice when I told you I loved you. And you were… I don't know, Richie. You were gross. You were fucking strung out and disgusting and wasted.

"I cleaned you up as best as I could with some napkins from my glovebox and then I took you back to my dorm. I gave you a cold shower and washed the dirt out of your hair and toweled you off because you could hardly move. My roommate was gone that night and so I put you in his bed. You were still coming down pretty hard and you started babbling about how scared and sad you were. So I held you in my arms and I swore to you then, I swore that no matter how bad off you were, how high you were, or how much you'd fucked up, that I'd always be there for you. I said that all you ever had to do was call and I'd come and pick you up. I will always love you, Richie, but I stopped being in love with you then.

"The next morning, we got breakfast and I drove you to your place and the whole time you acted so incredibly normal. It was disconcerting. Only addicts can make something like that seem normal. You didn't seem to recall anything from the night before, but you must have remembered a little part of what I'd said because you did start calling me whenever you were in trouble. There's never been a time where I didn't answer the phone. The last time you called was when you were in the bathroom at the Times Square Olive Garden.

“I’m telling you all of this not just because I need you to know how baseless and hurtful what you said yesterday was, but also because I hope it will help you understand where I’ve been coming from these past few months. I've known you nearly my whole life and I've seen you worse off than anyone else has.” Stan stares at his feet. He picks up Mike's beer and hands it to Richie. "This yours?"

"No," Richie says. "The water was for me."

"Huh."

Richie puts the beer down and drinks his water nice and slow and quiet. Once he's finished, he looks at Stan and Stan looks back at him.

Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. He hands it to Stan.

"What is this?" Stan says.

"Just read it. Aloud, if you don't mind."

"Okay. It says, 'From the desk of Katherine Wilson, Ph.D. To whom it may concern, Mr. Richard Tozier completed a full session of behavioral health counseling with me on October 19th, 2018.' What is this?"

"It's what it says it is. You were right all the times you told me to see someone. I finally did. I'm so sorry, Stan. I'm sorry for last night and I'm sorry for putting you through all the things I put you through."

Stan holds the paper and reads it over again. "Did you get the therapist to write you a note just to show me?"

"Yep. I got her to call me a 'mister' and everything." Richie smiles, just a little bit. It doesn’t stay for very long. “I hit rock bottom yesterday, Stan. I hurt all the people I care about. I hurt you. I’ve been hurting you for years. It isn’t your job to protect me. It never was. I was a stupid fucking kid who grew into a stupid fucking adult, but I’m trying to be better. I’m going to be better. But I’m going to have to do it on my terms."

"What do you mean?"

“I’m not going to a facility. I’m going to keep going to counseling and I’m going to spend the rest of my life working on myself if I have to. I’m going to hire someone else to help me with my finances. It wasn’t fair for me to get you to be the one to do them in the first place. I don’t want to be your employer. I don’t want you to be my therapist. I’m going to figure out how to be your friend again. That's all I want for us, to be friends. Can we do that?”

Stan looks at Richie and his demeanor crumbles. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his tears the way Richie might have.

“What did I say wrong?” Richie asks. His heart leaps into his throat. He can feel it beat in his ears.

“N-nothing,” Stan chokes out. “Nothing at all.”

And then, for the first time in their friendship, Richie is the one holding Stan.

"I've got to thank you, Stan," Richie says, "for everything you've done for me. You know, I kept them."

"Kept what?"

"The envelopes. All the little notes… I loved them, Stan. I loved them and I never told you. I loved your stupid little one-liners." _I loved you._ "But it's the end of an era, and it's time for me to be okay with that."

“I guess it is,” Stan whispers. “I need to tell you that I'm sorry too. I’m sorry for not seeing that you were working on yourself. I’m sorry for not trusting you. If you say you didn't use in New York, then I believe you. And if… if Eddie… if you really think that you love him, I can’t tell you that you don’t. But Richie, don't ever let him see you the way I saw you that night. If you love him, spare him that. Please."

“I do love him,” Richie says. “I love him more than I know how to put into words."

“Ok,” Stan says. “I trust you.”

"Thank you."

Stan pulls away from Richie and wipes his tears. "God, this was cathartic."

"Yeah," Richie laughs. "Oh, and by the way, _Led Zeppelin II_ is not a stupid album."

Stan rolls his eyes. _"Led Zeppelin II_ is a very stupid album."

"Better than Benny Goodman."

"I'll have you know that jazz is beautiful and timeless. Mike and I have decided to go as Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman for Halloween this year."

"Really? Who's going to be who?"

"Ha ha."

"But for real, are you two just going to put on tuxes and expect that people are going to know who you are? Or are you going to carry that long blowy thing and make Mike drag around a baby grand?"

"Long blowy thing? It's called a clarinet. You know it's called a clarinet."

Richie puts his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay."

It's been a long time since they've been able to laugh together. Longer than Richie realized.

"Do you want me to take you to your next appointment with Dr. Wilson?" Stan asks.

"I'm not going to see her again."

"Richie–"

"I, uh, I actually got her to write me a referral for a therapist in New York."

"New York?"

"Yeah. I'm going back. I know it seems compulsive, and I guess it is, but at least it's slightly less compulsive than last time. I mean I've mulled it over for like ten hours."

"Dear God."

"I know, I know. But it's something I have to do. I have to be there for a while."

"Alright," Stan says, a little too high-pitched to come across as casual. "I am acknowledging that you are an adult who can make decisions for himself."

"It's okay, Stan. I would be a little worried if you thought it was a good idea."

"Am I that transparent?"

"Like a used blotting paper."

"That's disgusting."

"Thank you."

"So, I guess we need to talk finances if you're leaving town."

"Oh Stanny, you always know how to get me hot and bothered."

"Richie, does your lip not hurt bad enough for you to know not to say stuff like that?"

"It was a joke! Besides, what's there to talk about? I've got all the money things now and I'll pay you through the end of the year. Easy peasy."

"It is neither easy nor peasy. Just for starters, when you say that you want to pay me through the end of the year, are you referring to the calendar year or the fiscal year?"

"The what now?"

"For all business purposes, I stay on the government's fiscal year, which just started a few weeks ago on October first."

"Oh my God. Did you file my taxes in time?"

"Richie, taxes are due in April. I'm signing you up for financial literacy classes."

"Anything but that!"

"I can help you find someone else to do your accounting. I know plenty of firms that have offices in both L.A. and New York. And I want to be paid for only the time I worked for you. I dropped you, you didn't fire me."

"Aye. And that moment in history will forever be remembered as the Great Schism."

"That name is already taken."

"What? By whom?"

"How is it that you don't know when Tax Day is but you can correctly differentiate between 'who' and 'whom'?"

"You underestimate me, Stan," Richie says. It's kind of a joke. It kind of isn't.

"I guess I do," Stan says. "I can get someone setting up your accounts by the end of next week. Try to leave everything alone until then, okay?"

"Yeah, that would have been a good idea."

"Would have been?"

"I may have spent ten million dollars this morning.”

Stan laughs.

“What?” Richie asks.

“It was funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“Oh God.”

“Yep.”

“What the hell did you buy?”

"Don't you worry, Stanny. It was something I should have done a long time ago. Yeah, I probably could have saved some money if I'd been willing to wait, but you know how government bureaucracies take so long. I had to pay some people to push things through. But you were right, I should take some financial literacy classes. I think I'm going to need them"

"Richie, what the hell are you talking about? What did you buy?"

Richie just grins. "Stay tuned and find out!"

  


Richie Tozier lands at John F. Kennedy International Airport at ten-thirty the next morning. It's been five months since he first ran away to New York. It turns out that that isn't such a long amount of time. But this time isn't like the last. This time, he isn't running away from something. This time, he's running towards something.

He makes a stop at a building in Queens. It's a squat little three-story thing made out of red brick with a wooden door in the front and a metal grate right next to it. It's covered in graffiti and grime and wedged in between a pharmacy and a bodega. And now, it's all his.

He meets a man at the door who hands him a key to the building and a stack of paperwork. They talk for a while. Richie asks if the man followed all the instructions he was given, the man says that he did.

Richie signs the paperwork. He spends most of the day getting everything in order; getting everything finished. And then he gets on the subway.

 

Richie doesn’t remember just exactly where Eddie lives, so he wanders around Bushwick with sunglasses on his face and a paper bag with something for Eddie in it in his hands. His cheapshit disguise is the same one Bev bought him all those months ago. The ‘BIG APPLE’ hoodie, the sunglasses. His hair is down and curtaining his features. It’s been a long time since he’s truly been out in public, so there's a chance that he's a bit less recognizable with his hair this long. The last pap photos of him were the ones taken with the Olive Garden bag. Maybe the ones from the club have been published by now. Maybe the ones people took of him outside of Dr. Wilson’s office have been. He hasn’t checked Twitter. He doesn’t think that he's going to. As he walks around he can’t shake the feeling that people can see right through the sunglasses. He’s going to have to get used to that feeling. He doesn’t want to hide in his friend's homes anymore. He doesn't want to hide behind his gate.

It's a little past eight when he stops in front of a building that he’s sure is the right one. Well, mostly sure. He stares at the buzzer by the door. There aren’t any names on them, just unit numbers. So he presses the first one.

“Hello?”

“Does Eddie live here?”

“No.”

The second one.

“Who’s this?”

“Does Eddie live here?”

“No.”

The third one.

“Yes?”

“Does Eddie live here?”

“No.”

The fourth one.

“Hello?”

“Does Eddie live here?”

“What do you want?” It’s Bev.

“It’s the Richie Tozier Apology–"

Bev buzzes him in.  

She meets him at the apartment door. The chain lock is shut and the door is only opened the few inches that it allows. She wearing the red scarf again. It’s the color of a blood moon.

"Bev, I–"

"Eddie isn't here right now."

"Oh, uh, where… where is he? It's Thursday night. He's always free on Thursday night."

"He took an extra shift."

"Oh. Is it because of… because…"

"Say it, Richie. Why would Eddie possibly upset?"

"Because of what I said."

"And what else?"

"I ignored his phone calls."

Bev slams the door in his face. Then he hears the chain slide and she opens the door again.

"Come in," Bev says.

They sit down at the tiny kitchen table. Richie squirms. He puts the paper bag down. Eddie's apartment is just the same as it was five months ago, only now it feels less than cozy. It feels claustrophobic.

"Did Eddie ever tell you about our friend Matt?” Bev asks.

“No," Richie says. "I didn't know he knew anybody named Matt."

“Well, we weren't all that close with him. You see, Matt was a real dumbass when he drank. One night, we were at his house and Eddie and I’d had a few beers, but Matt was going crazy. I mean he was just absolutely fucking hammered. At some point, he took his pants and underwear off and threw them over the fence. Then he came back over to where we were sitting in these plastic lawn chairs. They were those real cheap stackable ones, the kind with slats in the seat. So he came over and he collapsed into the one next to me and just as soon as he did he let out the loudest, most horrible scream I’ve ever heard in my life. Eddie and I just stared at him for a minute because it wasn’t really clear what happened at first. But then he started screaming ‘My nuts! Oh God, my nuts!’ You see, when he sat down, his weight going into the chair was just enough for one of the slats to open up and for his balls to fall through, and as soon his weight settled, it closed back on them again.”

“Jesus–"

“I’m not done. The plastic chair pinched the top of his scrotum and his balls were trapped. Eddie and I just looked at him in horror as he was wailing and screaming and crying. We tried to get them him out, but every time he moved, he just cried louder and louder. Can you imagine how that felt for him? Finally, Eddie had to call the fire department to come and get him out. This poor motherfucker who probably thought he’d get to be a hero when he signed up to be a firefighter had to crawl under the chair and come face to face with a pair of sweaty, disgusting testicles hanging down at him. He told us he'd have to cut the plastic away. He warned Matt not to move. Eddie and I tried to hold him just as still as we could, but it was no good. At the last minute, Matt flinched and it made the firefighter slip.”

“No."

“Matt got his scrotum cut open, Richie. And if you thought he was screaming before… God. It was like listening to a pig being slaughtered. The only good to come out of it was that with all that blood, his balls slipped right out of the chair. What do you think about that?”

“Are you threatening to castrate me?”

“I’m just telling you a story.” Bev runs a hand through her hair. "If you act like a reckless idiot, life might just catch you by the balls."

"I made a mistake."

"Yeah. You did. Look, Richie, I like you. I think you're funny and smart and you’re probably a generally good guy, but Eddie is my best friend. More than that, he's a person. The way you treated him isn't the way people should treat people. I don't know why you said what you did. I don't know why you didn't answer when he called you back. I don't know why you're here right now. But I do know that any minute now, Eddie is going to walk through that door. And Richie, he isn't mad at you. It hasn't even occurred to him to be mad. He should be mad. He _deserves_ to be mad. But he isn't. He's scared and he's confused and he's upset because he thinks you're on the edge of destruction and he doesn't know how to help you. So you make this better. Do you understand that? You can be better, Richie.."

“Bev, I’m trying. I’m going to make things right.”

“I hope you do. Like I said, I like you.”

Richie would like to think that they’ve become good friends. Eddie gave her his number after he sent the Ray-Bans and they’ve had their fair share of conversations. He's had them with Ben too. But his friendships with them were always an extension of Eddie. And now, face to face with Bev, Richie isn’t sure where they stand. The way she looks at him has none of the shock, none of the adoration, none of the amusement that she had for him the first time they met. The way she looks at him now is more bitter, more sad, more skeptical. But she smiles.

“What’s in the bag?” she asks.

Richie tells her. She doesn't get it at first, so he relays his whole plan.

“How romantic.” He can’t read her tone. It could be ironic. It could be approving. Richie can’t tell. Bev probably intended it that way. Richie thinks she and Stan could go head to head for a round of poker. “Take your hoodie off,” she says.

“Why?”

“It’s tacky.”

He pulls the hoodie off and she throws it to the other side of the room.

She takes her scarf from her neck and wraps it around Richie’s. “There," she says. "You look nice. You look pretty.”

“Pretty," Richie echoes. Eddie called him pretty the night they met. Richie hadn't known exactly what to do with that then. And what about now?

"I'm going to head out," Bev says. "I'm meeting Ben for some drinks. Goodbye, Richie."

"Bye, Bev," Richie says and he hopes it isn't the last time.

 

About fifteen minutes after Bev leaves, there are footsteps in the hall outside. The lock turns. Eddie opens the door.

"Richie?"

Richie's blood freezes all at once in that way that happens only when you get a rush of emotion so powerful that you can't quite comprehend what it all means. It all falls on the line. 5,560 text messages. 222 hours on the phone. 2,815 miles apart. A three hour time difference. Five months. They haven't touched each other in five months.

"Bev let me in," Richie offers weakly.

"Oh," Eddie says.

The conversation is stilted and strange. The air is electric with all the things that need to be said and it's stiff because Richie doesn't know how to start.

"Do you… do we…" Richie fumbles. He stands up. His hands are a bit numb by his side, a bit cold, a bit far away.

Eddie walks over, slow and strange. He's paler than Richie remembers. It's an odd sort of thing. Richie always was the one who sent most of the photos and they never did get around to video calls. Everything he knows about Eddie's appearance is based on less than twenty-four hours of memory, a few snapshots, and a few dirty videos which weren't exactly focused on his face. For all the intimacy they've fallen into, Richie's never had the simple privilege of seeing Eddie like this. He isn't wearing leather pants or eyeshadow and his eyes aren't half as wild as Richie's memory holds them. He's wearing a pair of blue jeans that don’t have a particularly close fit, a faded polo shirt, New Balance sneakers. He looks plain. He looks tired. Even when he doesn’t look beautiful, he still is. It’s sort of miraculous.

"Your lip," Eddie says. "What happened?"

Richie knows he's not just talking about the lip.

"I fucked up," Richie says with a listless sort of laugh.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Eddie, it was a misunder–"

"–standing. When you were at the club some guy offered you drugs and another guy took a picture of you. They tracked you down and hit you up for money in exchange for their silence. When you found out, you thought I was involved."

"Yes. Exactly. How did you know?"

Eddie pulls out his phone. "The internet. TMZ published photos from the night at the club. Photos with you holding drugs. I saw them on my way home. It didn't take me too long to piece things together. Then someone posted pictures of you outside of a therapist's office. People are talking. They're saying you're spiraling. They're saying you're headed off the deep end. Are you? Are you drowning, Richie?"

Richie's dream. Going under in the tub. Clawing at the water, reaching, tearing, grabbing, searching for something. Something. What's going to fix you? Something. He needs something. He needs _something._ But Eddie isn't a thing.

"No one ever taught me how to swim," Richie says. "But I'm going to learn."

And the way Eddie looks at him… Richie’s heart breaks because it is so incredibly filled with love. It isn’t the boyish love Stan once held for him. It isn’t the mournfully steadfast love his mother held for his father. It's not the reflective love Bill had for his ex-girlfriend. It is not naive and it is not cynical. It is a love entirely of their own. It is a love that says, _I know you; I see you; I love you anyways._

He suddenly knows that Stan was wrong. Richie can't conceal the way he was on April 20th, 2010, not to Eddie. He has already seen him that way. Eddie has _always_ seen him that way. There have never been any illusions as to who Richie is, not to him. Because Richie is everything he ever was and he is everything he ever will be. He's an addict. He's recovered. He's vomiting on himself. He's holding himself with pride. He's walking and he's stumbling and he's falling and he's getting back up. He's the good and he's the bad and he's the former slowly coming to outway the latter. Things that seemed so far off and abstract and terrible suddenly seem so clear and easy. Who is he? He's himself.

Eddie has shown him that.

And Richie sees who Eddie is too. He sees the anxieties and the fears and the need of reassurance. He sees the masks that Eddie wears. He sees the distance he tries to build, the aura of mystery and excitement that he creates. The need to be someone else for just one night. The need to be in love for just one night. Richie knows that Eddie does this because he's scared that who he really is isn't good enough. Richie knows that it is.

Because they know each other. Love or vivisection. It's all the same really.

The distance closes. But they don't kiss now. Not yet.

"I'm so sorry," Richie says. "Eddie, I'm so sorry for what I said. I'm so sorry for not answering when you called me back. I'm so sorry for not calling you yesterday. I'm so sorry for not loving you the way you deserve to be loved."

Eddie looks up at him with his untamed eyes. Searching eyes. Balancing eyes.

"I forgive you,” he says.

Richie lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. A breath he's held too long. And then he's telling Eddie what happened after he left the voicemail. Mrs. Denninger. Stan. Bill. The baby. Mike. Crumbling. Dreaming. Vomiting. He tells him the truth about his dad's death. About fixing things. About how hard he's trying. About how hard he's always going to be trying.

"I want to be better," Richie says. "I want to be better for you. I want to be better for my friends. I want to be better for the memory of my dad. I want to be better for me."

"You're going to be," Eddie says. And he kisses Richie. It's out of practice and it's perfect. It's new and it's familiar.

"You're here," Eddie whispers as he pulls away. It's isn't performative or poetic. It's disbelieving. It's _giddy._ "You're really here."

"I'm really here," Richie laughs. "And I'm going to be here. I'm staying in New York."

"Richie, I don't want you to have to move here for me. I don't want you to–"

"I didn't move here for you. I moved here for me. Being in the same city is just an added bonus. A big added bonus."

"What do you mean? Why are you here?"

Richie hands him the paper bag. "I got you something. It might explain it."

Eddie looks at the bag skeptically.  He pulls out a box. He looks at it, a little incredulous, a little amused.

"You bought me a clock radio?"

"Yep. I know you're uncomfortable with me buying you things, so you can pay me back if you want. It cost me seven whole dollars."

"I don't get it," Eddie says. "Why are you giving me this?"

Richie pulls out the last piece of paper he had to sign this morning out of his pocket and unfolds it. He hands it to Eddie.

Eddie scans the paper. "What's EDI?"

"It's pronounced 'Eddie'," Richie says. "Although the full legal name is WEDI-FM 100.3 FM. You know, they make you have a 'w' in front of it."

"You bought a radio station?"

"I bought a radio station."

"You bought a radio station and named it after _me?"_

"I did. It's gonna be kickass, too. Soon all of New York is going to be listening to EDI. Eds, I've been alive for twenty-five years and in all that time, the only person who's ever asked me what I want to be is you. I don't know how I could have thought you were fake, even for a minute." Richie holds Eddie's hand. Skin to skin. "Eddie Kaspbrak, you are the most real thing that has ever happened to me. How could I not name it after you? The night we met you said that maybe it was time I made a change. It's taken me this long to see that I can. So I'm going to live in New York and I'm going to be a DJ on my own radio station. How about that?"

"That's fucking amazing," Eddie says.

"Oh, you haven’t heard the best part yet."

"What is it?"

"Plug in the radio and tune it to 100.3. I bought it off an old station, so I didn’t have to wait to apply for a new frequency or buy all new equipment. I had to do a few under the table deals to get my license rushed through. I spent all day working with some guys I hired to get everything up and running quickly. I had to get everything done fast because there’s something I needed you to hear something. I only got it set up for one song, but it's a good one.”

Eddie plugs in the radio and finds the frequency. Richie reaches over him and turns it all the way up.

_“–if you wanna be my lover, you have got to give / taking is too easy, but that's the way it is–“_

“Wannabe?” Eddie laughs.

“It’s been on a loop for the past three hours.”

“For me?”

“For Posh,” Richie says. “I love you, Eddie. I’m in love with you.”

Eddie sighs. He smiles, but it's a bit wistful, a bit regretful. He holds Richie's hand and runs his fingertips over his blacked-out nails.

"I've never loved anyone before you," Eddie whispers. "We've done this all out of order, haven't we?"

"Yeah, I guess we have," Richie says. He takes his hand back and brushes Eddie's jawline. He's forgotten how it feels to touch someone this way. "I… I don't want you to feel trapped. Eddie, if we do this, if we're together, the photos on Twitter are going to have you in them too. I won't be able to stay here with you. I won't even be able to spend the night, not once people find out. People will try to follow us. You don't have a doorman. People will wait outside to see you when you leave your apartment. Some people might even try to break in. When we go out to eat, people will take pictures of us. When we walk down the street together, they'll want autographs. If I ignore them, people will start saying I'm disrespectful and that I don't appreciate my fans. There will be people who get obsessed with our relationship. There will be people who hate you for being with me. There will be people who hate me for being with a man. People are already saying that I'm having a breakdown, they'll think that you're a part of it. I want nothing more than for things to be simple. I want to take the subway to work every day and come home to you every night, but it doesn't get to be that way for me, and if you're with me it won't get to be that way for you either. You're just starting your life, Eddie. You're a few months away from graduating. You have so much ahead of you, so much. I don't… I don't want to stand in your way."

"I love you," Eddie says. His eyes well with tears. A few stream down his cheeks in glistening streaks. "I love you irreversibly."

"What you said about happiness and sadness, I get it now. I thought it was a dichotomy before. I thought it was a paradox. But here we are. It was never not going to be complicated, not for us. I love you so much, Eddie. I've spent so much of our time being afraid that you didn't love me, being afraid that you would leave. If you let me, I'll never stop loving you. But it has to be up to you. What are we going to do?"

Eddie sniffles. He puts his hand on Richie's chest and he feels his heartbeat just as he did after their first kiss as strangers right on the street outside of the club where anyone could see. Carefree. Raw.

Eddie wipes away his tears. He smiles. "Ask me if you can take me on a date."

"Eddie Kaspbrak, will you go on a date with me?"

In the background, the song starts over.

  


The night ends in a suite at the Plaza Hotel. Photos of them kissing at a little burger shop in the East Village are about to usurp the ones of Richie in the club and the ones outside Dr. Wilson's office. Good.

After dinner, they stopped by the station and Richie went on the air for the first time a little past midnight. No one was listening, but it doesn't matter. It sounded just like this:

_“Alright, this is Richard Tozier live and on the air. You heard that right. It’s Toe-zhure, folks. From here on out, I’m your rock jock. I’m here to play you some great albums. Now I'm still figuring things out, but I've decided to take on a broadcast name. I've got two top contenders, so soon you'll be knowing me as either Records Tozier or Rich the Bitch. I asked my boyfriend and he said it didn’t matter because they’re both terrible. Oh, I guess I've got to mention that I have a boyfriend. Anyways, I've been gabbing on too long and there's plenty of that to come in the future. Tomorrow is our first official broadcast and we'll be playing some really great music, so stay tuned. But tonight, without further ado, here's 'Wannabe' by the Spice Girls for the 199th time today. Welcome to EDI Radio."_

They have sex that night, desperate and needy, soft and loving. Richie falls asleep with his head on Eddie's chest and his heartbeat against his temple.

In the middle of the night, Richie wakes up.

He walks to the bathroom and presses his hand against the mirror. A willing hand. His father's hand. He's spent so long wanting for part of his father to be part of him too, but now he knows that it's always been that way. He never stopped taking after his dad. But he's going to stick around. He's going to fight for his place in the world.

Richie finds a Sharpie that made it into his suitcase with his Oscar. He stands in front of the mirror, uncaps the marker with his teeth, and holds one eye shut. And then he starts to trace. His open eye, the profile of his nose, his lower lip. Again. His other eye, his nose head on, his left cheekbone. Again. His eyes. His nose. His lips. Over and over in no order at all, he chases his features and captures them running into each other and overlapping. His left ear touching his right. Ten eyes clumped together in the center. A wreath of lips. He covers the whole mirror in little fleeting ephemeral snapshots of himself. There and gone. There and gone. There.

He stares at what he's done and all of the sudden he’s laughing and he can’t stop. He's ruined the hotel's mirror and he doesn't care. Hell, he'll call it art. The self-portrait looks nothing like him and everything like him all at once. Realism. Abstraction. _Romanticism._ It looks like a Miró. It looks like a _concept._ But it's him. A living, breathing, person. Shattered, scattered, and pulled back into one.

"What's so funny in there?" Eddie calls from the bedroom, his voice full of sleep.

"You'll get it later," Richie says back. He laughs again.

"Come back to bed."

"Just a minute, Eds."

On the bottom of the mirror, in a field of noses, he titles it:

RICHARD WENTWORTH TOZIER

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's supported this story, y'all are amazing.  
> If you liked it, please let me know by commenting, leaving kudos, etc. <3


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